The Case of the Malevolent Mugging
by LuckyLadybug
Summary: SECOND ARC. As the noose tightens around both Lieutenant Anderson and Amory Fallon, Hamilton, Perry, and the rest must sort through a case that has snowballed into something much darker and more sinister than they had even believed, and which will involve more friends and more antagonists.
1. Observatory

**Perry Mason**

_**The Case of the Malevolent Mugging**_

**By Lucky_Ladybug**

**Notes: The characters are not mine and the story is! I've long been fond of Amory Fallon, Wesley Lau's first **_**Perry**_** character, in the episode **_**The Impatient Partner.**_** It was Amory, and not Andy, who made me realize how attached I'd become to both Wesley and Andy. Hence, this story idea began to form. It does follow my mystery timeline, but aside from brief references to past adventures, it should be able to be seen as a stand-alone. The time period is the present day, as always.**

**Chapter One**

Lieutenant Andrew Anderson was exhausted.

Some days were so slow that he was counting the minutes and feeling tempted to throw pencils at the little holes in the ceiling tiles.

Other days were so active that he barely remembered getting home and into bed; he was half-asleep before he ever collapsed on the pillow.

His active days were often filled with a variety of excursions, from examining murder scenes to questioning witnesses to dropping everything to appear in court on separate cases.

That had been the story of today. Now, as he slumped forward at his desk, his arms crossed upon it, he was having the first moment of quiet since he had come in for work sometime that morning. It was getting dark now. Working as a detective meant that overtime just came with the job. A _lot_ of overtime.

"Oh, why did I take this job?" he mumbled to himself.

He didn't really mean it, of course. As a veteran of the force for over fifteen years, he was devoted to his career in the Homicide division. But on bad days, all he wanted was to go home and sleep.

When the phone began to ring, he had half a mind to just let it keep on going. After two rings, however, he pushed himself up with a sigh and lifted the receiver. "Lieutenant Anderson," he mumbled, brushing his falling blond hair out of his eyes.

"Lieutenant, I have to talk to you."

The voice was unfamiliar and low, but Andy could easily hear the fear in it. "What about?" he asked. "Who are you?"

"I'm not giving my name. But you're working on the Graveyard Murder, aren't you?"

"Yes," Andy frowned.

"I know something about what happened that night. But I can't come in there to see you. You have to meet me by the Griffith Observatory in thirty minutes."

It was not the first time Andy had been forced to meet an informant in an unusual location. He started to get up, grabbing his hat at the same time. "How will I know you?" he asked.

"I'll be wearing a red baseball cap with pins all over it. Be there on time or I'll have to leave." With that the mysterious man hung up.

Andy replaced the receiver and hastened to the door. He would be there on time. Any information on the Graveyard Murder would be welcome. It was a gruesome case wherein a dead body had been found sprawled over a headstone in the Los Angeles City Cemetery. So far there were no leads and no suspects.

He stopped by the squad room and peered inside. "Sergeant Brice?" he called, seeing the man at his desk.

Brice looked up. "Yes, Lieutenant?"

"We have a possible lead on the Graveyard Murder. I was just contacted by an anonymous informant."

Brice weaved his way around the desks and hurried to the higher-ranked man. "What did he say?"

"He wants me to meet him at the Griffith Observatory in thirty minutes," Andy said. "He didn't specify whether I was supposed to come alone, so I'd rather not. There's no telling what might happen if someone is aware that he knows. He sounded afraid."

Brice nodded. "Then let's go, Lieutenant."

They headed for the door.

xxxx

Businessman Amory Fallon was overworked.

He had founded and run the Fallon Paint Company on his own for years. For a time he had brought in a partner, Ned Thompson, but that had been a drastic mistake. Ned had betrayed and cheated him. After his unfortunate murder—for which Amory had been falsely accused—he had determined to go back to the old way of controlling the company all on his own. There would be no more partners.

In general it had been better that way. But every now and then there came a time when business was booming so seriously that Amory wished he had an honest partner to share in the work.

Today he had been on the phone for hours. And just when he had hung up at last, believing that he could stop and go home to Edith, the memory of something else he needed to do hopped into his mind.

"Oh no," he groaned to the empty room. He was supposed to meet a client at the Griffith Observatory at eight, and judging from the last time he had seen a clock, he probably had only moments to spare if he wanted to be punctual. It was all written on the pad in front of him, left by his secretary before she had hurriedly departed to the airport to greet arriving relatives.

For a moment he continued to lean back in the chair, resting against it but being too concerned about the meeting to doze. Finally he sat up straight, running his fingers through his blond hair. Usually he managed to keep it combed and neat. After today it had gotten into wild disarray.

He stood, shuffling to the nearest men's room and the mirror. It would not do to arrive for an appointment looking as bowled over as he felt.

Once his hair was combed and his tie straightened and he had his laptop and his briefcase, he felt a bit better. He would go directly home after the meeting. Edith already knew about it, so she was aware he would not be back for a while yet. He would not need to call her beforehand.

Turning off the lights, he hastened out the door.

xxxx

The Griffith Observatory in Griffith Park was a historic and visually appealing locale. And tonight, as the skies grew dark, it was also crowded.

The blond man sighed to himself as he exited his car. He glanced back at the sound of a voice from the radio, but then turned and started up the road. Soon he crossed onto the grass.

He had been forced to park some distance away, as the small parking lot was full. What the blazes was going on there tonight? Were all the colleges bringing astronomy clubs to see through the telescopes?

He sighed. Hopefully it would not be hard to find the person he was there to meet.

With a cruel and cold click, a gun was shoved into his back in the next moment.

"Get your hands in the air, Cop."

He froze. "What?"

"You heard me. Reach!"

There wasn't any choice. But even as he raised his hands to the sky, his unknown assailant lashed out.

Pain exploded in the back of his head. He collapsed to the ground as everything went black.

xxxx

"Lieutenant Anderson is _missing?_"

Hamilton Burger could scarcely believe what he was hearing. He leaned forward at his desk, his free hand upon it.

"That's what Sergeant Brice said when he called, Mr. Burger," Tragg told him. "It seems that they went to meet an informant at the Griffith Observatory. Brice stayed in the car at first, as he had to take a call that suddenly came in. Andy only had the chance to get a few yards away in that time, but when Brice got out and looked for him, he was gone."

Hamilton shook his head, still in disbelief. "And now it's been almost two hours. Tragg, did Brice ever find the informant they were supposed to meet?"

"No, he didn't. I've been up here combing the grounds for over an hour. Brice has been at it for the full two. And we haven't found a single trace!"

Hamilton started to rise. "I'm coming out too," he declared. "I'll have my phone with me. Let me know if you find him before I get there."

"Alright." Tragg heaved a sigh. "There's no telling where he could've got himself."

Hamilton knew that all too well. Griffith Park was Los Angeles's answer to Manhattan's Central Park. And Griffith was even larger.

He hung up, snatching his hat and coat as he headed for the door. It was late summer now; the nights were growing chilly. The recent cold front only added to the drop in temperature.

"Mr. Burger?"

He stopped in the corridor, surprised at the sound of the familiar voice. "Sampson? What are you still doing here? I thought you went home hours ago."

Deputy District Attorney Gregory Sampson sighed, shifting the folders he was carrying under his left arm. "I've been sorting through the Thompkins case ever since court let out," he complained. "It's still a muddled mess!"

"I know it is," Hamilton frowned. "But you haven't made any headway on it at all?"

"I'm beginning to piece together a theory," Sampson told him. "I'd like to review it with you, Sir, if you have a moment."

Hamilton debated for less than that moment. "Lieutenant Anderson has disappeared in Griffith Park," he said. "I'm going up there to join in the search. If you want to come with me, I'd be happy to hear your theory on the way."

Sampson nodded, his eyes registering his amazement at the announcement. "Of course I'll come," he said. "But how does a noted police lieutenant simply disappear?"

They began to walk up the hall to the elevators. Hamilton massaged the bridge of his nose. "I wish I knew," he said. "He was going to meet an informant. Sergeant Brice looked away for one minute while he took a call. When he looked back, Lieutenant Anderson was gone. He hasn't been seen since."

"Are the police considering that perhaps the meeting was a trap?"

"Yes, they are." Hamilton pressed the elevator button as they arrived. "Lieutenant Drumm is going over all of Lieutenant Anderson's recent cases, looking for anyone who might have had a motive to set this up."

"It's outrageous," Sampson fumed. "We do our best to protect the people, but there is never an end to the number of madmen emerging in our district. And then they turn their attention on us!"

Hamilton stepped into the elevator and pressed the ground floor button. "I learned a long time ago that it unfortunately comes with the job," he said as Sampson followed him in. "Some people will never be happy with what we do. Why would they? We help put them away, or their family or their friends. It doesn't matter to them that we're doing our jobs and getting criminals off the streets. We'll probably always be the bad guys to their kind."

"It still isn't right."

"No, it isn't. But anyway, right now we don't even know if that's what happened to Lieutenant Anderson. It's just a possibility."

"I understand. But it wouldn't surprise me if it is the truth."

"It wouldn't surprise me, either," Hamilton returned.

It was always eerie, talking with Sampson about these matters. He was young and impulsive and determined to single-handedly fight all the evil in Los Angeles County. Hamilton had heard people in the office joking that Sampson probably kept a tattered copy of _Don Quixote_ under his pillow. And that might not be so far afield.

He reminded Hamilton so much of himself when he had first joined the District Attorney's office.

Hamilton had the sense that Sampson was always trying to prove something to him, that perhaps he even felt Hamilton did not like him. Of course, neither was true. Hamilton knew that Sampson had great potential or he would never be kept on at the office. Sometimes Hamilton had to scold him for his conduct in court, but it was only necessary. Hamilton wished now and then that someone had been around to rein him in more during those first years as the district attorney. If he could provide a guiding hand for one of his rising-star assistants, now that he was older and wiser, he would do it.

And as far as liking Sampson went, well, yes, it was surreal to see himself reflected in this younger man, but Sampson was his own person. And Hamilton liked that person.

"Mr. Burger, are you going to call Mr. Mason about this?"

Hamilton started. "Huh? Oh. Yes, yes I should." He took out his phone as the elevator reached the ground floor. Perry would be deeply concerned about Andy's disappearance. He and Della and Paul would likely all want to join the search.

xxxx

Lieutenant Tragg stopped near a tree, leaning against it in frustration as he pushed up his hat. The search was starting to sweep over a widening circle around the Griffith Observatory, with a continuing lack of success. And the longer this went on, the more worried he and Sergeant Brice grew.

"I just don't understand it, Lieutenant," Brice exclaimed. "He was right there. How did he disappear just in the time it took me to take that call?"

"It happens in kidnappings all the time," Tragg muttered. He was starting to believe that Andy was not here at all. And what did that leave, other than kidnapping?

The informant was nowhere in sight, either. He could have run away, figuring Andy was not coming fast enough. Or he might have been captured or killed. And there was always the chance that he had been part of all this madness.

"Lieutenant, I just feel terrible about this. If anything's happened to him . . ."

Tragg waved a tired hand at his old friend. "Settle down, Sergeant. It isn't your fault."

Brice sighed. "It's hard not to feel like it is."

"Blame the radio for suddenly coming to life," Tragg said with a crooked smile. "You would've been right there with him if it hadn't."

"That's true," Brice conceded. "That was the plan. Lieutenant Anderson hadn't wanted to come here alone. When the call came in, he thought he should hurry ahead anyway while I took it. With the evening traffic, we were already late."

"I understand, Sergeant."

Tragg's attention was suddenly captured by several familiar figures walking over the grass. "Lieutenant?" came Perry Mason's voice.

Tragg sighed but ambled over to them. "I sort of figured you'd end up involved in this, Perry," he greeted. "And Della and Paul too, by default."

"Oh, Lieutenant, hasn't there been any sign of Andy?" Della exclaimed. "We've all been so worried since Mr. Burger called and told us."

"No," Tragg said. "No sign."

"Where are your men looking now?" Perry asked.

"Oh . . ." Tragg turned, gesturing around the hill. "We've about covered all of this thing by now."

Paul cringed. "So if he's not on the hill, he could be pretty much anywhere in the park."

"Uh huh. And with over four thousand acres, you, uh, see the problem."

"Yes," Perry frowned and nodded. "We certainly do."

Tragg walked past him, starting to head down the steep hill. He nearly crashed into a worried Officer Reed coming from the other direction.

"Whoa there," he said, reaching to steady them both. "What gives, Reed?"

"Lieutenant, Pete just got a call from Mac," Reed told him. "Mac found a man lying in the bushes farther down the hill. He's been beaten and mugged—no identification. But Mac wanted me to come get you right away."

Tragg rushed past him without another word. Brice, Perry, and the others were all right at his heels.

Sergeant MacDonald looked up as the group arrived on the scene. "Lieutenant, I think you need to have a look at this," he said.

Tragg did not like the other man's grim expression or his tone of voice. From this angle, he could not clearly see the man MacDonald was kneeling beside. He was on his side, facing away from Tragg.

"What's going on, Sergeant?" he demanded, walking over. "How badly is he hurt?"

"Well, he's alive," MacDonald said slowly. "He was hit over the head pretty bad; I can't get any response from him at all."

Tragg knelt down, resting a hand on the victim's shoulder. As he turned the limp form just enough to clearly see his face, he had to sharply draw in his breath. Behind him, Della let out a horrified gasp.

MacDonald gave Tragg a sad look. "I wasn't sure."

"It's him," Tragg nodded. He stared at the blond hair slipping away from the closed, pained eyes. "Oh Andy. . . ."

"I've called for an ambulance," MacDonald said. "I'll see if I've got a blanket in the car, to treat him for shock."

Tragg nodded, only half-hearing. He was already shrugging out of his coat and draping it over his surrogate son. Andy was a good police officer, one of the best. But that did not mean he was immune to assault. Obviously he wasn't.

"Who did this to you?" Tragg uttered in both anger and fear. "Who?"


	2. Confusion

**Notes: Some anonymous reader seems to be very anxious for chapter 2! Well, after champing at the bit for a month to start this story, so am I! The updates won't all come this fast, especially since I'm working on another story at the same time, but this chapter got started and kept coming. I love when that happens.**

Devoted wife Edith Fallon was ready to go out of her mind.

By now it was two in the morning and Amory had not returned from his appointment. He had called and told her about it several hours before he had left the office. And he had assured her that it would not run long. It couldn't; the Griffith Observatory closed at ten.

Edith had not really started to worry until eleven had rolled around. Amory could have some very long business meetings with clients sometimes. And it would take a while to drive home from Griffith Park. But he should have been home no later than eleven. He should have been home far sooner than that.

She had been calling his cellphone since one minute past eleven. In desperation she had even called the office. There was still no answer at either place.

At last she snatched her keys, heading in determination out the door to her car. This was unheard-of. She was going to Griffith Park herself. It was the only thing she knew to do. Oh, she could call the police, but they wouldn't even consider Amory missing until twenty-four hours went by. And who knew what would have happened to him by then?

She gripped the steering wheel as she drove. Something had to be wrong. Amory would have called if something had come up.

The only time he had ever not called had been several years ago, when the betrayal of Ned Thompson had sent him spiraling out of control. He had begun to imagine up other betrayals in his mind, especially that Ned had been having an affair with her. It had tormented Amory, driving him to the brink of a nervous breakdown.

But they had at last mended their misunderstandings and everything had been fine since then. Now, suddenly tonight, she could not get in touch with him at all.

She reached down, flipping on the radio. She hated being alone with her thoughts for too long. It caused them to wander all sorts of places she did not want them to go. Maybe she could find some music to calm her nerves. Or even some news that would give her some confidence that Amory was alright.

When the announcer mentioned something about a brutal assault in Griffith Park, she nearly slammed on the brakes.

"_A renowned member of the Los Angeles Police Department, Lieutenant Andrew Anderson, was viciously attacked by an unknown assailant several hours ago in Griffith Park. He was found unconscious from a heavy blow to the head and removed to Central Receiving Hospital. A longtime friend and colleague, Lieutenant Arthur Tragg, has refused to comment, other than to assure the people that the person responsible for the assault will be caught. No word has been issued on Lieutenant Anderson's condition."_

Edith trembled. Someone had been attacked in the park the same night Amory had been going there. And a policeman, no less! No one was safe. Of course, the park was huge, and surely it had not happened in the same area, but . . . if one man could be mugged, why not two?

"Oh Amory!" she cried in anguish. What if that was why he had not come home? What if the police would find his body lying somewhere else in the park? What if he wouldn't even just be unconscious? What if there wouldn't be a chance for him at all?

The rest of the drive was a hopeless blur. Edith barely processed anything until she was in the park and driving up the steep hill leading to the Observatory. There were still police around, despite the hour. And what was more, they were standing and staring at one lone car still parked by the curb.

Edith pulled over as well, turning pale at the sight. She knew the car.

The police looked up with a collective start as Edith parked and got out of her car. "Ma'am?" one of them called. "I'm sorry, but you can't stay here. It could be dangerous."

"But that's my husband's car!" Edith cried, pointing at the vehicle.

The officer stiffened. "Are you sure?" he demanded. "It's been sitting here for hours. There isn't anyone around."

"I _know_ it's his car!" Edith retorted. "And I know he was coming here tonight, to meet someone at the Observatory."

The two policemen exchanged a look. Did they know something? Before Edith could plead and beg for them to tell her, the second officer spoke.

"Can you describe your husband?" He took out a notepad and pen.

Edith fumbled with her purse. "I have a picture of him in my wallet," she said. "But he's blond . . . blue-eyed . . . about six-feet one-inch . . ."

"Does he own a red baseball cap?" the officer interrupted. "With pins in it?"

Edith started, blinking at him in bewilderment. "Why, no," she said. "Amory doesn't wear hats. He doesn't like how he looks in them."

"Who was he meeting?"

"Oh, I don't know," Edith all but wailed. "A business client."

The second officer looked bewildered, but at last some recognition shone in the first officer's eyes. "He wouldn't be Amory Fallon, of the Fallon Paint Company?"

"Yes!" Edith exclaimed.

"My wife and I bought some of his paint for our house," he said. "What time was this appointment?"

"Eight. He didn't think he'd be gone until the Observatory closed at ten, but sometimes his meetings take longer than he thinks they will." Edith finally managed to open her purse. She started to dig through it for her wallet.

"Well, we haven't seen anyone for a long time, Ma'am," the first officer said. "And no one's come out to this car."

"We've been wondering who owns it," the second officer added. "We were just about to call in and see if anyone ran it through DMV yet."

"I heard on the radio about that poor officer who was attacked," Edith said. "What if Amory . . ."

"Now, let's not worry about that just yet," the second officer broke in. But Edith could see from his eyes that he had already started to worry.

His partner looked even more concerned. "I guess there's even the chance he could've been locked inside the Observatory, although it seems that by now we'd know if he had been. The night watchman would've surely run across him."

"He's hurt, I know he is!" Edith located her wallet at long last and flipped it open. "Here! Here's Amory."

The first officer reached to hold the picture higher into the light. But as he got a better look, he stared in utter, undeniable disbelief. "_This_ is your husband?" he exclaimed. The second officer leaned over, likewise staring.

Edith's stomach dropped. "What's wrong?" she demanded. "Do you recognize him? Did you find him lying somewhere too? Oh please, tell me!"

The second officer drew a shaking breath. "I'm not sure, Mrs. Fallon," he said. "Excuse me a minute; I think I'd better call this in."

xxxx

Tragg was unable to concentrate.

For a while he had attempted to read a magazine someone had left on the waiting room table, but it had been a futile and quickly abandoned effort. How could he focus on the lives of strangers he would never meet when someone he deeply cared about was hurt? He preferred just to sit, until he grew too restless to stand it. Then he got up, pacing the floor.

And all the while his thoughts kept following him. He could not escape from them, no matter what he tried.

Right now Andy was lying in a hospital room, deeply unconscious. The doctor had not been able to draw any response from him, either. There was nothing any of them could do now except wait for him to wake up. And with a head injury, there was always the concern over whether it would even happen at all, or what kind of damage there would be if and when it did.

Tragg and the others had been in and out of the room, but for the most part they had stayed in the waiting area. The doctor had not wanted anyone to stay very long, not until he had a better idea of the extent of Andy's injuries.

Tragg was not alone in his vigil. In addition to everyone who had come from the park, Andy's cousin Jimmy and their surrogate mother Erna Norden had come as quickly as they could. Jimmy was often joining Tragg in his pacing. Mrs. Norden was sitting and wringing her hands in agony.

"Oh, Jimmy, please stop!" she cried at last. "You will wear a hole through the carpet. You are already wearing a hole in my nerves!"

Jimmy finally ground to a halt. "I'm sorry, Mama Norden," he said. "I just can't stand it. How did this happen? _Why_ did it happen? Andy was _shot_ last year. Wasn't that enough?"

Mrs. Norden covered her face in grief. "Oh Jimmy . . ."

Tragg looked away. He had to admit, the same thought had crossed his mind. It really shouldn't have, he knew. Every day was a risk for a police officer. But in spite of himself, he was bitterly thinking that Andy should not have been attacked tonight. Andy should have been left alone this time. It had taken him so long to recover from the shooting.

"Maybe he'll wake up soon," Della said, trying to sound hopeful and encouraging.

"Maybe," Tragg grunted. "And meanwhile, we don't have any leads on who could have done this! That informant's vanished into thin air."

Sergeant Brice was standing apart from the group, gazing out the window. He had felt horrible enough when Lieutenant Anderson had gone missing. Now that he had been found hurt, Brice could not refrain from berating himself all the more.

He'd _had_ to answer the radio call, of course. But he could have watched Andy all the while instead of looking away. Maybe if he had paid more attention, he would have caught a glimpse of the attacker.

"Sergeant?"

He looked up at Perry's voice. The famed lawyer was coming over, concern in his eyes.

"Sergeant, you can't blame yourself for this."

Brice sighed. "I guess it's not logical, but I can't help it."

Perry nodded. "I know it's difficult. But Lieutenant Anderson certainly wouldn't want to see you in this state."

"Of course he wouldn't." Tragg was coming over now as well. Guilt was flickering in his eyes. "I'm sorry, Sergeant. We've all been so worried about Andy that I didn't stop to remember that you would still be upset."

"I wouldn't expect you to, Lieutenant," Brice said. "Andy's the one who's been hurt."

"There's different kinds of hurt," Perry said. "Guilt is one of the most painful of all."

"Excuse me."

Everyone looked up with one accord at the doctor's voice. He looked both hesitant and concerned as he came in.

Mrs. Norden stood to face him in dread. "What is it, Doctor? Is something else wrong?"

The physician exhaled, sharply. "Well, he's starting to wake up, but . . ." He ran a hand through his hair. "I'm not sure what's wrong. He's not responding to his name."

"What?" Tragg dashed over. "Are you saying he has amnesia?"

"I don't know." The doctor turned to lead them down the hall. "Come with me, please. You should see this for yourselves. But don't all crowd into the room at once. The last thing he needs is more excitement."

The group followed him to the door, exchanging bewildered and worried and even frightened glances. As Tragg peered into the room, he could see that Andy was conscious. The younger man was staring around the room, his blue eyes filled with apprehension.

"Andy?" Tragg called. He stepped into the room.

The man started and looked over. "Lieutenant Tragg?" He both sounded and looked perplexed.

Tragg came over to the bed. "There, you can't be as bad off as the doctor was saying," he said. "You recognize me. And you responded to your own name."

"But . . ." The patient shook his head. "My name _isn't_ Andy! Lieutenant, _you're_ the one who doesn't recognize _me._" He reached out, grabbing hold of Tragg's wrist. "You arrested me for murder several years ago! Don't you remember?"

Tragg froze. "What are you talking about?"

"My name," was the impatient reply. "My identity! I'm not _Andy,_ whoever he is. I'm Amory Fallon!"

xxxx

"Wake up, Fallon."

The harsh slap to his face startled him to his senses. He jerked, his eyes flying open. "Who . . . what . . ."

"There's a good boy." It was too dark to see who was speaking, but whoever it was, was most unpleasant. He was only becoming aware now that the speaker had hauled him up by his shirt. And he was being let go. He crashed back to the floor, several feet down.

He grimaced in pain. "What . . . do you think you're doing?"

"Your partner had some unfinished business with us. Well, now he's dead, so we're coming to you to finish it for us, Fallon."

That was what he thought he had heard the first time the man spoke, but he had been too groggy to really focus on it. Now he grasped at the unfamiliar name. "You have the wrong man," he snapped. "My name isn't Fallon."

"Don't try any tricks!" The shadowy figure delivered a painful kick to his ribs.

He jerked, but grabbed for the other's ankle. "I mean it," he said, his voice dark. "You're assaulting a police officer. My name is Lieutenant Anderson, LAPD. And I'm not going to tolerate this treatment."

For the first time his assailant hesitated. "Lieutenant . . . ? No, that's impossible! You look exactly like Fallon. You won't get away with pretending to have some double."

Andy stiffened. "Double . . . ? But I . . ."

The lightbulb went on in his head. The very first time he had met Lieutenant Tragg, several years before, the veteran policeman had stared and given a violent start. Andy had felt awkward and embarrassed.

"_I'm sorry, did I do something wrong?"_ he remembered asking.

Tragg had tried to quickly pull himself together. _"No. No, Lieutenant, you didn't do anything wrong."_

"_Forgive me, but you looked like you'd just seen a ghost."_

Tragg had responded with a knowing smile. _"Not a ghost, Lieutenant. Just another man. Someone who, oddly enough, resembled you enough to be your twin brother."_

Andy had laughed. _"He must be my double. I don't have a brother, twin or otherwise."_

Now it was starting to look like he had been mistaken for someone else again, maybe even the very same someone else. Only this time the error might be deadly—for him.

He was being scrutinized now. He could feel that, even in this room lit only by the moon and stars shining through the dingy window. Unable to see much aside from a silhouette, he glowered anyway.

"You might be lying, Fallon, but maybe I'd better double-check." The figure rose, crossing to the door.

Andy remained tense. "And just what if you find that I'm telling the truth?"

The man paused for only a moment. "Well, I'm sure you realize that you'd be a liability. See, you'd know too much for us to let you go."

It was nothing Andy had not expected to hear. His eyes narrowed. "The sentence for killing a police officer is very stiff."

"Oh, we'd make it look like an accident, of course. Or find a patsy to blame your death on." The figure opened the door and stepped into a lighted hallway. "Don't bother trying to get out, Fallon or Cop or whoever you are. You could break that window, sure, but the dogs we've got on patrol would come running. Ever been mauled by a Doberman pinscher?"

"No. And I don't care to have the experience," Andy retorted.

"Then stay put." The door slammed shut, plunging Andy back into the near-darkness.

Andy slumped back against what felt like a table. Now that the initial shock was over, he was becoming aware of his acute dizziness and pain. Someone had jumped him from behind and shoved a sweet-smelling cloth over his nose and mouth long before he had ever reached the Griffith Observatory. He had struggled, but had lost the fight. The resulting headache was pounding through his brain.

What did not make sense to him was, how could these people have made such a mistake? He had had his identification at the time of attack. They could have taken one look and seen for themselves that they had knocked out the wrong man.

He fumbled in his coat pocket. No badge. He frowned, searching his other pockets. Not only was there no badge, his wallet was gone. And of course, someone had taken his gun.

What had happened to Sergeant Brice? There had been no mention of him. Had he escaped being caught because he had been taking that radio call?

And what about the informant? Had he met with Brice? Or had they come too late to speak with him?

Surely the informant had been honest and on the level. It would not make sense for him to lead Andy into a trap, not when it was this Fallon person these people were after.

But had he really, coincidentally blundered into a plot intended for a man who looked just like him? It sounded too bizarre to be true. This was not a science-fiction novel; it was real life! These sorts of things did not happen in real life.

And where was Fallon, the man who could hopefully answer his questions?

Or could he? It almost sounded as though what was going on would be a surprise to him, too. What was that about a partner?

He frowned. Maybe if he knew whom Tragg had been talking about in relation to him, he would have some idea of the backstory behind this mess. After all, there surely couldn't be more than one man running around town who resembled him.

Then again, after everything he had encountered over the past year, could he really be sure of anything?

Outside the dirty window, the sound of dogs barking was very clear. His captor had not been bluffing about the Dobermans. Someone yelled, apparently at them, and they quieted.

Andy stared up woefully at the smudged glass. "What on earth have I gotten into?" he whispered.


	3. Letter

**Notes: I'm unsure if it's plausible that Amory's partner would even write the letter revealed here, but we know so little about him that perhaps it's just as plausible as many other possibilities.**

**Chapter Three**

Tragg was thunderstruck by the patient's announcement. "Amory Fallon?" he cried, jerking his wrist free from the panicked grasp.

He took a step back, scrutinizing the injured man. Amory was a dead ringer for Andy, that was for sure. No one had had any doubts in the park or at the hospital. He was the same height, around the same weight, and had the same blond hair and blue eyes. His voice was the exact same tone and pitch as well.

Mrs. Norden gave a cry and rushed into the room. "I don't understand!" she exclaimed. "You are not my Andy? You look exactly like him!"

Amory looked to her, uncomfortable by both her anguish and the fact that he could not lessen it. "I'm sorry," he said. "I'm not him. If I was, I'd never play such a cruel joke."

"He wouldn't, either," Mrs. Norden said sadly as she turned away.

Jimmy entered and drew an arm around her shoulders. "This is unreal," he said. "You can't be Andy, but . . ." He trailed off and shook his head. "This just can't be real."

In the doorway, everyone else was staring, aghast. "Amory Fallon?" Paul echoed Tragg's exclamation. He looked to Perry, lowering his voice. "Perry, do you think this _is_ for real?"

Perry sighed. "Yes, Paul, I do. We all know that Amory and Andy could be twins. And Amory still lives in Los Angeles. We haven't seen him, but Clay has mentioned him and Edith fairly often."

"But him and Andy showing up at the same place, at the same time . . . !" Paul gave a helpless gesture. "What are the chances of that?"

"Surely it's a coincidence," Hamilton said. "Fallon was mugged and was just mistaken for Andy by the police." He looked to the agonized man, worried. "What we really have to find out is, if Fallon's here, what really happened to Andy?"

"That bothers me too," Perry said. "I'm just wondering if it is a coincidence. Maybe they also mistook him for Andy. And after they knocked him unconscious they found his identification and realized they had the wrong man."

"That's possible, I suppose," Hamilton agreed.

"Poor Andy," Della whispered in alarm. "And Mr. Fallon too. This is terrible for both of them!"

Amory was trying to climb out of bed. "I have to call Edith," he said. "Look at that clock! She'll be worried sick about me!"

Tragg reached for his shoulders, trying to hold him down and push him back into the bed. As he did so, the doctor was hurrying in to assist.

"Now, I'll see that your wife is called," Tragg told him. "For goodness sake, man, you've been unconscious and unresponsive for several hours! That was a nasty knock you took."

The doctor nodded. "Please relax, Mr. . . ." He glanced at Tragg. ". . . Mr. Anderson, or Mr. Fallon, or whoever you are. You're in no state to get up!"

At last Amory slumped back into the pillows, more from his increasing dizziness rather than their protests and restraints. "Alright," he mumbled with reluctance. "But you _will_ call her?"

"Right now," Tragg assured him. "Just tell me this, Mr. Fallon—do you remember being assaulted?"

Amory stared into the distance for a moment, trying to think. ". . . I had an appointment with a business client at eight," he said slowly. "I arrived at the Griffith Observatory a few minutes late. It was crowded and I had to park down the road. I hadn't gone far when someone came up on me from behind and addressed me as 'Cop'. He was sticking a gun in my back."

"Didn't you tell him you weren't a police officer?" Tragg frowned. His stomach was turning at the tale. Someone had definitely been out to get Andy, to promptly corner Amory as they had.

"I was so rattled by the gun that I just did what I was told," Amory said. "I was going to tell him I wasn't a policeman once my hands were in the air, but he never gave me a chance." He cringed. "That was when he hit me."

Mrs. Norden gasped. "Oh no. That's horrible. That poor man." She gripped Jimmy's arm. "And poor Andy. What's become of Andy?"

Jimmy shook his head. "I don't know," he said in helplessness. "He's just _gone,_ vamoosed into thin air."

"Someone has taken him," Mrs. Norden said. "They must have taken him! He isn't around anywhere!"

Jimmy swallowed hard. Mrs. Norden was no doubt right. And the sick feeling in his throat just kept coming back stronger.

He and Andy were cousins, but they were close enough to be brothers. He had always idolized Andy. That was why he had been so determined to become a police officer.

And now Andy was gone. If some nut out to get him had taken him on purpose, they might never find him. Not until it was too late.

Tragg was still hoping to glean a bit more information. "Have you ever heard the man's voice before?" he asked.

Amory shook his head. "No. Absolutely not."

"Would you recognize it if you heard it again?"

Now Amory hesitated. ". . . I _might,_" he said at last. "But I'm afraid I just couldn't say for sure. I was so upset when he held a gun to my back."

"No more questions, Lieutenant," the doctor said, giving Tragg a stern look.

Tragg nodded, weary. "That's all for now, Mr. Fallon. I'll call your wife."

But that proved unnecessary. Frantic footsteps echoed down the hall, followed by a familiar, panicked voice. "I still don't understand! This police officer looks exactly like Amory?"

Again Amory tried to rise. "It's Edith!" he exclaimed. "How on earth did she end up here?"

Perry, and everyone else in the doorway, turned to look. "She's with another doctor and Officers Reed and Malloy," Perry announced.

Reed was in the process of trying to explain the bewildering situation to Edith. "I know it sounds crazy, Mrs. Fallon, but yes, he does look like Mr. Fallon. Everyone was sure they had Lieutenant Anderson, but after seeing your husband's picture, we have to check. If he's not awake, we'll take his fingerprints. Mr. Fallon's should be on file, since he was accused of murder several years ago."

Perry hastened forward to meet them. "Mrs. Fallon?" he called.

Edith looked up with a start. "Oh, Mr. Mason!" She ran the rest of the way to him. "Is that poor man awake? Do you . . . do you know if . . ."

Perry laid a hand on her shoulder. "It's Mr. Fallon," he said gently. "Yes, he's awake. He's been very emphatic about his identity and very worried about contacting you."

Edith stared. "Is he going to be alright?" she demanded. "Please tell me he isn't seriously hurt. This doctor said no one could be sure unless he woke up!"

Perry gave her a kind smile. "He seems to be somewhat dizzy, but otherwise fine. I'm sure he'll recover."

Her eyes immediately sparked with light. "Thank God! May I see him?"

"Of course." Perry stepped aside and allowed Edith to rush past him. The others also moved aside to make way for her.

She did not even pause when she reached the room. Instead she focused on Amory in the bed and was at his side in the next instant. "Amory!" she cried. "Oh Amory. . . ."

Amory reached and took her hand. "Hello, Edith. I'm sorry I didn't come home or call," he said with regret. "I would have, if I'd been awake."

Edith gripped his hand in both of hers. "I heard about the mugging on the radio, but I had no idea it was you. I thought it was the police lieutenant. And then I found these officers and showed them your picture and . . ." She shook her head. "It's been horrible. But of course it's been so much worse for you. Amory, are you in much pain?"

"It's nothing," Amory said. "I should be out of here soon."

"Not until tomorrow at the very least," the doctor grunted.

Amory sighed. "Well, that's only the rest of the night away," he said. "And there's not much left of that."

Tragg slipped to the doorway and into the hall, pulling the heavy door shut after him to give the couple some privacy. He was lost in thought, and obviously it showed.

"Tragg?"

He looked up at Hamilton's concerned voice. ". . . I can still hardly believe it," he said. "It's like some horrible nightmare. We were supposed to have Andy. I thought that once he woke up, everything would be fine. But now we know we don't even _have_ Andy! And Heaven knows where he is!"

"Have you heard back from Steve on Andy's recent cases?" Perry asked with both sympathy and agreement.

"No." Tragg passed a hand over his face. "Now I have to call and let him know about this mess." He walked past the group, his hat in his hand. "Excuse me."

Della stared after him. "I feel terrible for poor Lieutenant Tragg. And Mrs. Norden and Jimmy, too. They're not even still here."

"Jimmy took Mrs. Norden to the cafeteria just a moment ago," Perry said, "when Mrs. Fallon ran into the room." He sighed, looking to the others still with him. "We have a lot to do."

"And nowhere to start," Paul moaned. "Perry, just what do you think we can do?"

Perry looked in the direction Tragg had taken. "Well, after we find out what Steve said, we might have something more to look into. If not, we'll go back to Griffith Park. As Tragg said, it's over four thousand acres. One man could be easily overlooked."

Hamilton raised an eyebrow. "Perry, do you really think Andy is still at the park?"

Perry sighed. "To be honest, no, I don't. I'm afraid he was taken by an unknown enemy. But we have to look into every possible angle. And if nothing else, we might find a clue."

"We have to find that mysterious informant, too," Hamilton frowned. "If he's genuine. The only thing we have to go on is that hat he said he'd be wearing. And maybe that was a lie."

"Maybe it was," Perry agreed. "But I certainly intend to look for him anyway."

Hamilton nodded. "I'm going to put some of my investigators on it."

Paul sighed. "None of us are going to get any sleep tonight," he predicted. "Not that I feel like sleeping now, anyway."

"I'm sure none of us do, Paul," Perry said. He clapped a hand on Paul's shoulder. "We have a friend to find. Let's move out as best as we can."

xxxx

Lieutenant Steve Drumm hung up the phone with Tragg in utter disbelief and shock. This was preposterous. They had mistaken another man for Andy. That man had also been mistaken for Andy by whoever had hurt him. And Andy himself was who knew where.

He glowered at the stack of assorted files on his desk. He had been going over and over Andy's cases for the past few hours—up, down, and sideways. No specific names had jumped out at him. The list of people who might feel bitter enough towards Andy to harm him was practically endless. And starting today, he would have to open investigations into every known one.

Considering the case involving Andy's cousin Jimmy several years earlier, it was even conceivable that the culprit was someone who just wanted to hurt a police officer, _any_ police officer, rather than caring if it was Andy.

"Lieutenant?"

He looked up at Sergeant Brice, who had been helping him with the search. "What is it, Sergeant?"

Brice set another stack of folders on top of the ones already there. "I can't find anything helpful, Lieutenant." His slightly drawling voice was mostly impassive, but Steve picked up on the worry behind it. "What are we going to do?"

"That's the problem; we're practically at a dead end," Steve answered. "We'll investigate every name in every one of these files, including the families, friends, and acquaintances as well as the convicts themselves. And we'll keep searching Griffith Park. But other than that, at this point there's nothing much we _can_ do."

Brice hesitated. Noticing, Steve glanced up at him. "Do you have any other ideas?"

Brice snapped to attention. "Well, Lieutenant, it's just that . . ." He mulled over the best way to phrase it. "I know it sounds ridiculous, but . . . Amory Fallon was mistaken for Andy. Is there any possibility that the reverse happened, too?"

Steve raised an eyebrow. "You mean Andy being mistaken for Amory Fallon."

"Yes, Lieutenant."

Steve pondered on that. "I wouldn't think it would happen," he said. "Why would they both have enemies at the park at the same time? . . . Of course, on the other hand, what were they both doing at the park at the same time themselves?" he muttered as an aside.

Louder he said, "And what about the problem of their identification, Sergeant? Anyone could look at it and see they'd made a mistake."

"But someone took Mr. Fallon's identification," Brice pointed out. "That's how he got mistaken for Lieutenant Anderson by us."

"So someone took Andy's identification too?" Steve shook his head. "That would almost mean that someone was _trying_ to cause confusion and hoping they'd be mixed up."

"And who's to say they didn't, Sir?" Brice said.

Steve sighed. "Ordinarily I'd scoff at this. But this case is already so convoluted that it actually makes a sick kind of sense." He grabbed for the phone. "I'll see if I can find out if Amory Fallon has any enemies."

xxxx

Andy had gotten up in spite of the persistent headache and was wandering the room, searching for either a way out or a clue as to what was going on in this madhouse. So far he had found neither.

Exasperated, he went back to the door. It was sealed tight and could not be budged, even when he slammed into it with his full weight. And that had been a bad idea anyway. Now the dizziness and the headache were worse. Groaning, he slumped against the door and pounded as loud as he dared.

"Hello?" he called. "What's going on here? Let me out!"

Of course there was no response. He turned away, hitting the door with the side of his curled fist.

He moved back to the window. The dogs were quiet now. Maybe if he pushed the table under it he could climb up and get out. He did not want to risk being attacked by the Dobermans, but he would rather take his chances with them instead of with the people holding him here.

The floor was rough and the table was old. He cringed as he attempted to push it along. The resulting screech of protest could surely be heard all over the compound. And it was too big for him to simply lift and carry over in silence. He paused, waiting for someone to come running. When, miraculously, no one did, he resumed the cacophony but struggled to go as slowly as possible. He discovered in annoyance that the lack of speed made little difference in the amount of sound.

At last it was against the wall. He hoisted himself onto the surface and stood, peering out the old window. Unfortunately, there was very little he could even make out other than a florescent light in the distance and what _might_ be the outline of a wire fence. Most likely electrically charged, he thought in irritation.

The abrupt sound of the key in the lock and the doorknob turning nearly sent him tumbling to the floor in surprise. He scrambled to get off the table, but as he slid to the floor he realized how pointless it was. His captor would see the table at the window and know that he had been trying to get out.

It was the same unknown man from before. "Okay, Fallon, I have men checking out your story," he said. "We've confirmed there's a Lieutenant Anderson, but that doesn't prove you're him."

"And it doesn't prove I'm not," Andy retorted.

The other man sneered at the sight of the table. "Trying to escape, in spite of my warning? Or did you just want a better look at the view?"

"Maybe both," Andy said.

"Maybe." The silhouette reached into the hall and flipped a switch. Light flooded the room from a dim bulb on the low-hanging ceiling.

Andy squinted and blinked. It was hard to get used to the light now, after being in the dark for Heaven knew how long. "Why are you allowing me to see you?" he asked.

His captor, shorter than him but appearing just as strong, smirked from behind his long and full mustache. "It's not me so much as it is this note." He waved a piece of paper in Andy's face. "This was intercepted several years ago, before it ever reached you. I want you to read it. Then you should know exactly what we want from you."

Andy extended his hand and slowly took it. "If you took it several years ago, why didn't you do this then?" he demanded.

Mustache narrowed his eyes. "I never said _we_ intercepted it," he said. "But even if we did, I don't have to explain our reasons to you. Just read it, Fallon."

Andy glowered but refrained from again proclaiming his true identity. He looked to the paper. It was written in a sweeping and distinguishable hand. The words quickly made him forget his admiration of the penmanship. Even without knowing much about his counterpart's backstory, he was stunned.

_Amory—_

_By the time you receive this, I don't know what will have happened to me._

_I don't even know why I'm writing to you, particularly after everything I've done to both you and the company. Maybe it's the pangs of guilt they say strikes those about to die. Or maybe it's not nearly so dramatic, but instead is only the result of realizing that I've lost, that there's no point in continuing with my plans._

_I, along with your brother-in-law, embezzled heavily from the company. If anyone is blamed, it will probably be you. All the evidence of the embezzlement was destroyed in the explosion the other day._

_Carlos Silva is going to receive the Martin formula. Bert Nickols and I closed a private deal with him. If you receive this in time, maybe you can still turn the tide and stop Silva from taking the formula._

_You have every reason to not forgive me for the crimes I've committed against you. We were friends once, when you first made me a partner in the company. But I discarded that friendship out of both greed and desperation when my gambling debts began to accumulate._

_However, Amory, I want to make one thing clear. About the only thing I __**haven't**__ done to you is to take your wife. You probably won't believe me any more now than you ever have, but Edith and I have never had an affair. Edith is completely devoted to you. She would cut off her right arm before she would consider betraying you._

_There's one other deal I got involved in, a deal that has nothing to do with the company. This is the one I'm worried about, Amory. They're going to kill me. At least if I can get this letter to you, someone will know what happened to me. I don't hold any illusions that you will want to see them brought to justice, but before I'm dead I want to ensure that someone knows the truth._

_I know too much about them. I've hidden my collection of evidence against them in a place where they'll never find it. I won't ask you to be the gallant knight and find it, and have you become entangled in another of my messes, but if you give this to the police, maybe they'll find it and see that my killers are checkmated._

_I'm sorry. It doesn't make any difference, I know, but as I'm writing this I'm honestly regretting everything I've done to you. I knew I needed help for my gambling addiction. But I never got it, and now I've brought us to this._

_It's going to take a lot to pull the company out from what I and the others have done to it. I know you can repair the damage, and I'm sure you will. I wish it wasn't necessary._

_Goodbye, Amory._

—_Ned_

Andy looked up at Mustache. "What is this?" he exclaimed. "Is it genuine?"

"It's from your business partner, Ned Thompson," was the reply. "And it's genuine. He wrote it only minutes before his death. It was taken off his body by his murderer, who entered several minutes after he finished. How ironic, that he was killed by his own accomplice and not by the people he was expecting."

"Is his murderer still free?" Andy cried.

Mustache's lips twisted in a cruel smirk. "Still putting on an act, Fallon? You know _you_ were the one arrested for Thompson's murder. Perry Mason exposed the real killer when he got you off.

"This letter was taken from Frank Wells before he had the chance to destroy it. Thompson had only been dead for several moments. But it's only come into our possession now, thanks to some aggravating dents in our plans."

"And you think Amory Fallon can find this incriminating evidence," Andy retorted. "A location wasn't even given!"

"Not on the surface," Mustache answered. "See, we think there's a clue in it, a clue that only you would understand."

Andy glanced at the letter again. "You're taking quite a chance, telling me this," he said. "What if I am the police officer I keep insisting I am?"

Mustache's visage darkened. "Like I said, we'd kill you. But I don't believe you. And if you _are_ Fallon, I don't want to waste time waiting to ask you about this while my men blunder around in the night, looking up Lieutenant Anderson."

He stepped to the door. "Just look over that letter some more. If anything comes to you, tell me if you don't want to be a cripple. And that's just for starters." He allowed Andy to see the flash of light off his gun as he stepped outside the room.

Andy watched as the door closed. Then, frowning, he looked to the letter again.

If there _was_ a clue in it, it probably would be something only Amory Fallon would understand. Andy would have to smuggle it out with him when he left.

_If_ he left.


	4. Dogs

**Chapter Four**

Lucy looked up from her textbooks with a start when the front door opened at long last. She hurried out of the kitchen to greet her exhausted uncle as he shuffled through the door, groaning to himself.

"Uncle Arthur!" she gasped. "What's wrong?"

"Eh." Tragg shook his head. "Oh, this has been one disaster of a night." He hung his hat on the rack by the door as he shut and locked the door behind him. "Didn't you get my message from earlier?"

"Message?" Lucy blinked, turning to stare at the also-blinking answering machine. "No, I didn't," she realized. "My phone's been here charging. And I didn't think to check the machine." She looked back to her uncle, guilt flashing in her eyes. "I'm so sorry! I was out late, and when I got back I knew I needed to study for that test next week, so I just started right in."

"Oh well, that's better anyway." Tragg crossed the living room to a chair and sank into it. "There's nothing you could have done except worry more."

Lucy stood over him, her hands on her hips. "Worry about what? Uncle Arthur!"

Tragg ran a hand through his hair and finally looked up. "Andy's missing."

Lucy stiffened, her mouth hanging open in her shock. "Oh no," she breathed. "Oh, how did it happen?"

"That's what we'd like to know."

Tragg found himself telling her the whole sordid story, from finding the body in the park to the agonizing hours in the hospital and the discovery that the man was Amory Fallon and not Andy. Throughout the tale, Lucy knelt on the floor next to the chair, staring up at the tired and worried police lieutenant.

"And all this time I was out shopping and eating and working on a term paper!" she fretted. "Uncle Arthur, I'm so sorry. I should have been there."

Tragg shook his head and patted her on the shoulder. "No, no. You work hard at school—and around here. You deserved this evening to relax." He sighed. "There won't be much relaxation for anyone for a while now."

"Don't you have any idea where Andy is?" Lucy exclaimed. "Any idea at all?"

"None. We're going to be investigating the people involved in every one of his cases. And, just in case he was mistaken for Amory Fallon and taken by one of _his_ enemies, we have to look into that angle too."

Lucy glowered at the floor. "Oh, that Amory Fallon." She got up, her hair bouncing with the motion. "I never thought we'd run into him again, or that he would end up causing so much trouble."

"It isn't his fault," Tragg sighed. "Anyway, he was hurt too, being mistaken for Andy. And his wife was in a terrible state."

"I know," Lucy sighed too. "But still." She gripped the chair arm. "Is there anything I can do to help?"

Tragg managed a smile. "No, Lucy. I don't think so. I don't want you putting yourself in danger. Andy wouldn't, either."

Lucy made a face. "Well, Andy's important to me, too. I want to help!"

"You can help by giving me the peace of mind that I won't need to worry about you too," Tragg said. "And maybe by making some hot chocolate."

With another sigh, Lucy turned to head back into the kitchen. "Well, alright. Hot chocolate, coming up."

Tragg leaned back in the chair, listening to the sounds of pots and pans and measuring utensils. It was pleasant and comforting.

After Maureen had died years before, one of the things Tragg had hated the most was coming home to such an eerie stillness. There were no dishes clanging in the kitchen, no sweet voice humming or singing random songs, no footsteps going up and down stairs. There was only silence, a silence so loud he had nearly gone out of his mind from it. He had taken to playing the television and the radio at all hours, just to keep the house from being swallowed up in silence.

And it had not really helped. What had really bothered him was not so much the silence, per se, but what it represented. The knowledge that his wife would never again in mortality be present in the house was more than enough to make him abhor and detest the silence.

Lucy had known that Tragg needed her. At first he had protested; she had recently turned eighteen and should be out on her own, conquering her own little world. But she had insisted.

It had been almost bitterly hard at first. Lucy was so different from Maureen, and of course it was Maureen he longed to have there. He had not liked the idea of someone else using her kitchen and her dishes. When he had come home and heard someone bustling around in the house, for brief moments he had become eclipsed in the moment and fancied it was Maureen. And of course it could not be.

Still, slowly he had begun to heal. Lucy had been a large part of that process. Now he welcomed her presence and the fact that he was not alone. He dreaded the day when she would meet some nice young man and get married and move out. It did not seem likely to happen soon, but well, you never could tell with those things.

. . . Was Andy alone tonight? Or worse, was he with people who were treating him cruel?

Tragg sat up straight, opening his eyes. "Oh Andy," he whispered. "If only we could have found you."

xxxx

Hamilton was also troubled, as he drove home that night. He was alone with his thoughts; Sampson had lingered at the hospital for a while but had left out of necessity, needing sleep before going into court early in the morning. Hamilton had insisted.

Sampson probably would have stayed, otherwise. He was very devoted to Hamilton and was concerned by anything that concerned him.

"_Alright, so what kind of theory did you come up with for the Thompkins case?"_ Hamilton had asked earlier that evening, as they had driven to Griffith Park in what now felt like an eon ago.

"_Well,"_ Sampson had replied, _"you remember the details of the case, Mr. Burger? How it involves a mysterious man named Thompkins who fell in too deep with a criminal organization and then couldn't get back out?"_

"_Of course."_

"_All we have about him are the scrawled notes we found in the possession of Harvey Harlen, the killer for hire, describing what they know of Thompkins' habits and why he was a liability. It looks as though Harlen was plotting a time to kill him."_

"_Yes, that's what we figured." _Hamilton had raised an eyebrow, waiting for Sampson to get to the point. Knowing Sampson, he would have one.

"_It occurred to me to wonder why Harlen would need to know why Thompkins was a danger to the organization. Harlen's only purpose was to fulfill his contracts; he never needed or wanted to know why."_

Hamilton had nodded. _"It's too bad he was killed in that shootout with the police. Not that he would've told what he knew anyway."_

"_I wonder now if it was even Harlen at all,"_ Sampson had said. _"He never confirmed or denied his identity during the battle. We assumed it was him, but without his fingerprints on file to match against, we didn't know for certain."_

"_But who would it be if it wasn't Harlen?"_ Hamilton had kept his eyes on the road, but his mind focused on Sampson's words. It had certainly been easier than thinking of Andy lying injured somewhere in the park.

"_For all we know, maybe it was Thompkins himself, after having removed the information from the real Harlen. Maybe he was trying to disappear."_

"_Maybe,"_ Hamilton had offered noncommittally. _"But why wouldn't he have said who he was? Surely he knew that he stood a good chance of dying if he had a shootout with the police."_

"_What if Harlen was there too, but he had Thompkins held hostage, ready to be killed? And then Thompkins was killed by the gunfire and Harlen planted the papers on him to try to make the police think that he, Harlen, had been killed instead?"_

"_That could be,"_ Hamilton had said. _"So what are you going to do? Start searching again for Harlen, in case he's alive?"_

"_That's what I've been considering,"_ Sampson had answered. _"I wanted your opinion first, Mr. Burger."_

"_You don't really need my opinion, Sampson. I would've trusted your judgment. But yes, I'll give you permission to go ahead."_

"_Thank you, Mr. Burger."_

Their conversation was turning around in Hamilton's mind now, but he was not paying close attention to it. The words were mixing and mingling with other conversations from that day—discussions with Leon, questioning witnesses, and worrying over Andy's fate.

It was mostly the latter on Hamilton's mind as he pulled into his driveway and shut off the engine. Part of him was still bewildered, wondering how on Earth this had happened at all. The other part sadly knew it was all too plausible.

Would the police department receive some sort of ransom note for Andy? Or was Andy's abductor someone who only wanted revenge and intended to torture and kill him? They might not find out what had happened or where Andy was for days, weeks, even months. They might only put the pieces together upon finding Andy's body somewhere.

It was certainly Tragg's biggest fear. Discovering Amory Fallon in the park had only intensified it. If he managed to sleep at all, he would probably have nightmares about it.

And, Hamilton thought to himself as he fit the key in the lock, Tragg might not be the only one.

Andy had been a curious and capable new lieutenant upon his arrival. Amiable but businesslike, he had soon managed to adapt to the swing of things, striking up friendships with Perry and his crew as well as with Tragg and Hamilton.

Andy was not, however, quite as ease about it as Steve was. Sometimes Hamilton had the sense that Andy had been conflicted about how to handle being friends with Perry and company while not becoming caught up in any of their law-bending. The dilemma had stressed him more than once, and he had very rarely associated with Perry, Della, and Paul in social contexts such as lunch or dinner—unless it was a group dinner and Tragg and Steve were going as well.

Still, Hamilton had noticed that Andy had gradually begun to relax and open up around Della ever since Vivalene's spell had thrust them into an odd situation together. Della had been largely quiet at the hospital tonight, but Hamilton knew she was every bit as worried as everyone else.

Tragg had dubbed the group of them a "family". A mismatched, sometimes dysfunctional family, that was for sure. But a family nevertheless. And Andy was certainly a key member of it.

Almost automatically, Hamilton stepped into his house and flipped on the light, shutting the door behind him at the same time.

He wished there was more for him to do. The police and Hamilton's investigators had taken up the search, and he imagined Perry and Paul and Della would join in too, but for now he knew he needed to at least try to sleep. He wouldn't be fit to go to court or look for Andy or anything else if he stayed awake.

At the same time, he doubted sleep was possible.

Everyone else was probably of the same mind. Perry and Tragg were probably awake right now, trying and failing to think of what could be done.

With a heavy heart, Hamilton trudged up the stairs to his room.

xxxx

Andy was still restless. He had placed the letter from Ned Thompson in his coat pocket and was walking the floor, debating what to do. As he saw it, he had three choices.

He could go through with his original plan and climb out the window, despite the vicious dogs.

He could wait for the door to open again and try to overpower his captor and run out, despite the unknown dangers in the building.

Or he could wait with no intention of leaving yet, despite the danger if his identity was proved.

He was not sure which was worse. Every choice left the possibility of him being seriously hurt or even killed. But still, the more he thought about it, the more it seemed most logical to take his chances with the dogs. He would be killed for sure if his story was found to be true. And he might be shot on sight if he ran into other people while trying to flee through the building. He had no idea what was even in it.

Perhaps the great outdoors really offered just as much—or more—danger, but Andy was more willing to try it above the other options.

Still, in the process of climbing back onto the table, he hesitated. That man had not so much as tried to remove the table or push it away. That very likely meant something. He did not seem concerned about the idea of Andy escaping. And as long as he wanted to keep Andy alive, thinking he was Amory, he would surely not want Andy either to escape or be mauled by the dogs.

Maybe an alarm would go off as soon as the glass was broken. Or maybe there was even some sort of electrical wire that would deliver a jolt not harsh enough to kill him, but enough to stun him. He could do without being electrocuted today.

And completely aside from the pain, it would also be dangerous, because while he was unconscious all manner of things could be done to him. He could be left worse off than he was now. He might come to tied to a chair or in a torture chamber.

With a sigh, he stepped away from the table. They might even have a security camera fixed on him, observing his every move. Maybe it would be wiser to try to overpower whoever came through the door. It would be a surprise move, unable to be predicted from watching him via a camera.

But if they came through having learned that he actually was Lieutenant Anderson of the Los Angeles Police Department, they would already be prepared to kill. He wouldn't have a chance.

Finally decided, he stepped back on the table and took off his coat, wrapping it around his right arm. With all of his strength, he smashed his arm into the window, shielding himself at the same moment.

Glass flew everywhere, but there was no alarm. He looked up, frowning, as he cleared the jagged pieces of glass away from the sill and the edges. Maybe it was a silent alarm, meant to lure him into a false sense of security.

Well, he would have to chance it anyway. He hurriedly slipped his coat on again before placing his hands on the sill and hoisting himself up.

The cool night air immediately hit him in the face. As he pulled himself out of the broken window and got to his feet, he adjusted his hat to hopefully keep it from blowing away. He did not want to lose it, for more reasons than one. If he did and his enemies picked it up, they could use it to track him with the dogs.

He took a moment to stay in the shadows and take in his surroundings. It looked as though he was in some sort of compound. The grass stretched ahead of him, while more than one white, single-level building was behind him. Far ahead, underneath the towering florescent lights, ran a barbed-wire fence.

Andy winced. It was too high to climb over. And there was still the possibility that it was electrically charged. He would have to start walking across the compound in search of a gate or other means of escape.

The only consolation was that it certainly did not seem that any kind of alarm had gone off, silent or otherwise. Everything was in complete stillness; there was no shouting, no mobilization of vehicles or dogs. There was absolutely nothing.

And yet, somehow that made him more concerned than ever. If he was really not going to meet with any resistance, they must want him to escape. And that could only mean that he was still a pawn in whatever devious plot they had concocted.

Still, he could not go back. He could only go forward. He started on his path over the perimeter of the compound, keeping to the shadows of the buildings. The lights illuminated almost everything else, which, while good for him in one way, was dangerous in another. He could see all around, but he could likely be seen without difficulty too.

Where on Earth was he? Surely it was not an abandoned government bunker. He was not sure there even were any in the Los Angeles area.

Of course, he had no guarantee that he was even _in_ the Los Angeles area. The chloroform could have kept him under long enough to be taken far away, maybe even out of the state. If he could get out of here, the first thing he needed to do was to find a payphone. The phonebooks in the booth, if there were any, should give him an approximate idea of where he was.

He rounded the corner and then stopped short. Now there was a sign of life. A guard was passing by on his rounds. One of the infamous Dobermans was trotting at his side, kept on a short leash.

Andy pressed himself against the wall of the building. What was he to do now? Pray that they would go by without noticing him? Turn back and go around the other way? Slip into the building?

He had no idea what was in it. He would rather stay outside and get away as quickly as possible. Then, if he knew the location, he could return with more police and have the place stormed.

Neither the guard nor the Doberman seemed to sense that anything was wrong. For a moment Andy had hope. But then the dog tensed, a low growl starting in its throat.

"What is it, Boy?" the guard asked. "Someone running around who shouldn't be? Fallon, for instance?"

The dog turned towards the building's corner.

Andy pressed himself against the wall, his heart gathering speed. He could not bolt and run. That was the worst thing to do with a ferocious dog. But he was certainly not going to stand still and be caught, either. Keeping himself against the edifice, he inched his way towards the opposite corner.

He just barely disappeared around the other side as the dog and its handler reached the side where he had just been. The dog, not satisfied, emitted another growl, one that ended in a sharp bark.

Andy traveled down the side of the building and around to the back. He might be far enough away now that he could break into a run, but he was not sure he dared. He hated the thought of running blindly through an unfamiliar complex. Who knew what kind of trap he might fall into?

He was forced to run nevertheless. Two more dogs and handlers spotted him from a distance. "Hey!" one of the men called. "You! Stop!"

The dogs strained at their leads. Their handlers began to run themselves, allowing the dogs to fly over the grass.

Andy fled. On the other side of the building, the first dog was barking up a storm. It was likely running now too. And dogs all over the compound were starting to join in and sound their own alarm.

Andy could run into more quite by accident, stumbling across them around corners or between buildings, but he had to keep going anyway, in spite of that possibility. If there was just a tree he could shimmy up and use to drop down on the other side of the complex . . . ! But there were none.

It felt like the entire security force was coming after him now. He was coming up on the fence at last, but what good would it do him? Without breaking his speed he bent down and picked up a small rock, throwing it at the fence. As he had expected, it flew back as the electricity charged through it. There was no hope of going over the fence, even if he was willing to deal with the barbed wire.

Unless . . .

There _had_ been a tree here. He could see the stump now, as he turned and ran frantically for the corner. And during the clean-up, some of the branches had been left behind. One looked particularly long and possibly strong.

Andy had been an excellent athlete in school. Pole-vaulting had never been his specialty, but right now it might be his only chance. As he passed the long branch, he grabbed it up in desperation and held it high as he continued to run.

Two of the dogs had been released from their leads. Andy looked back in mounting horror as they charged ahead, their handlers falling back to let them make the capture . . . or the kill.

He jabbed the branch into the ground with enough force to propel him into the air. The fence was still too high for comfort, and his pole-vaulting had always been average or a bit below at best, but he frantically prayed for deliverance.

The electricity crackled to life, clipping at his leg in spite of his best efforts. With a yelp he collapsed on the other side, in a small patch of grass. He struggled up, trembling from the shock. One of the wires had snagged his leg too, but there was no time to inspect the damage. He was out of the compound, but he was in the middle of nowhere. And the dogs were still coming. It would not take long for them to be directed to the gate and continue their pursuit of him.

He ran ahead through the dirt, towards the clumps of grass and brush and what looked like a mountain. There was no telling what was on the other side, but if he could stay alive and free long enough, he would find out.

He had to pray it was some sort of friendly civilization, if not Los Angeles itself.


	5. Road

**Chapter Five**

Edith was restless as she sat in the chair next to the hospital bed. One hand gently stroked Amory's hand, as he lay asleep in the bed.

He insisted he was alright. The doctor agreed that he probably was, but Edith had seen that he was still uneasy. The knock Amory had taken had been harsh. The doctor had told her that he must have been unconscious for at least six hours, if he had been attacked a few minutes after eight.

Edith ran her fingers through Amory's hair. "Oh, why did this happen to you, Amory?" she said sadly. "You never intentionally hurt anyone. And someone just assaulted you for no reason!"

Suddenly she was angry. It seemed that people were always hurting Amory for no reason. Or at least, if they had reasons, they were never good ones. Amory's partner Ned Thompson had betrayed Amory because of his own greed. Bert Nickols had done likewise. Even her own brother, after becoming Ned's accomplice and later killing him, had deliberately tried to implicate Amory in the murder.

Some dark part of Edith had suspected Frank, if only vaguely. She knew of Frank's gambling debts and his inability to stop racking them up. And yet being a gambling addict was not like being a murderer. She had refused to outright believe that Frank would do such a thing. Or she had tried to, anyway. But her suspicions and fears had only increased after Mr. Mason had spoken to her. Still, she had tried desperately to hope it was someone, anyone, else. It could not be either Amory or Frank, she had insisted. It could _not._

Then Frank had confessed, bursting it out in court when confronted by Mr. Mason after a long cross-examination of Bert Nickols. And Edith's heart had shattered again. Why was it, that to save her husband she had to lose her brother? Why had Frank made it necessary?

"_Why, Frank?"_ she had sobbed as he was arrested. _"Killing Ned was horrible enough, but to frame Amory, who never did anything to hurt you and was always kind to you . . . ! How __**could**__ you?"_

Frank had looked down, ashamed. _"Because I'm weak,"_ he had answered. _"I'm weak, Edith! I couldn't get caught; I didn't want to die._

"_I never wanted to hurt Amory. But I had to frame someone, and he was right there, in a drunken stupor on the stairs. He was already implicated for the embezzlement, too. It was all so perfect. He was the perfect patsy."_

"_So you would have stayed quiet and let Amory be executed for your crime?!"_ Edith had stared with pleading, disbelieving eyes. This was not the younger brother she had loved and looked after for years. This was a stranger. Or, the horrid thought struck her, maybe this was who her brother really was and she had never actually known him.

"_I don't know, Edith."_ Frank had been honest then, the regret and sorrow in his eyes. _"I didn't want to, but I didn't want to die, either. But it kept building and building until I felt like it was all going to boil over. And Mason kept pressing, harder and harder, and I knew he suspected me. Finally it . . . it just blew up and everything was coming out._

"_I'm sorry, Edith. Will you tell Amory I'm sorry, too?"_

"_I'll tell him."_ Edith's answer had been with a heavy heart.

She wanted to believe that it was Frank's guilty conscience that had never let him be at peace, and that it was some spark of goodness still inside him that had made him confess at last. But she no longer knew what to think.

Now she knew what it was like to feel betrayed. And it made her heart twist all the more to think of how Amory had been so upset and so distrusting after beginning to suspect and later confirm Ned's duplicity. He had not been thinking clearly. Every tiny, insignificant thing had begun to look suspicious to him after that. It was no wonder he had crumbled into hysteria, believing that Edith and Ned had been having an affair.

Edith had always liked Ned. He had been a close friend of theirs for years and had often been over for dinner or parties or just to play a casual game of cards. His betrayal had left Edith stunned and crushed as well, when she had learned of it after his death.

Ned was gone, Frank was in prison probably for life, and Bert had also been arrested. The company had not been the same since. And Amory had stressed a great deal over how to put it back together.

But he had succeeded. At last he and Edith had experienced a relative peace again.

Until tonight.

"Someone thought you were this Lieutenant Anderson," Edith said, keeping her voice low. "And I heard that it sounds as though they're wondering if someone thought Lieutenant Anderson was you, Amory. But that would mean that you're still in danger, that someone's after you. Why would anyone be trying to hurt you now, Amory? Do you know and you haven't told me?"

No, she was sure that was not it. Amory was not good at hiding his feelings. If someone were out to get him, it would stress him more than enough that it would show.

"Well, how's the patient?"

Edith looked up with a start. Terrance Clay had wandered to the doorway and was holding the door half-open.

"I'm sorry, Edith," he apologized when he saw her expression. "I didn't want to knock in case I'd wake one or both of you up."

Edith rose, crossing to the doorway. "Amory's been sleeping peacefully," she said. "But I don't understand. I thought the police weren't going to say they have the wrong man, in case that would endanger Lieutenant Anderson all the more. How did you find out?"

"Perry called me," Clay said. "And he told me I wasn't to say a word to anyone else. You can rest assured that the secret is safe with me, Edith."

Edith managed a tired smile. "I know. But we'd better leave the room so we won't wake Amory." She slipped past Clay into the hall. He let the door quietly shut behind her.

"I could hardly believe it when Perry told me," Clay said. "Such a thing to happen to a fine Irishman like Amory."

Edith slowly nodded. "I had no idea they were actually talking about Amory when I heard them mentioning Lieutenant Anderson being hurt on the radio."

"It must have been a horrible shock," Clay said in sympathy.

"It was," said Edith, her voice choking with emotion. "I'm sorry, I . . ." She shook her head. "Please forgive me; I'm just not myself tonight."

"Of course you're not," Clay said, guiding her to a nearby chair. "Now, just sit down for a while and you'll start to feel better."

Edith was not at all sure of that, but she sank into it. After a moment of gathering her thoughts she said, "Clay, do you know this Lieutenant Anderson?"

"I've met him, yes," Clay said.

"What kind of person is he?" Edith wondered. "I mean . . . is it possible that he could be mistaken for Amory for very long, if he is at all?"

Clay thought on his answer. "That might depend more on how well his captors know Amory," he said. "The main similarity between them other than the physical is their honesty and integrity. But they're really very different men."

"And if they _do_ realize they have the wrong man, they'll come here, won't they?" Edith sounded afraid and lost. She felt like she was both.

"They may," Clay said slowly. "I wonder if the police are intending on that."

Edith stiffened. "They wouldn't use Amory for bait!" she cried, leaping out of the chair.

Clay held up his hands. "I don't know what they might do, Edith," he said. "But I'm sure they wouldn't put him in danger without talking to both of you first. Maybe they have a decoy in the hospital and will try to lead the criminals to him."

"I want to find out exactly what they're going to do," Edith said. "Amory's been hurt enough. I can't let anything else happen to him!" She looked up and down the corridor in desperation. "Do you know if Lieutenant Tragg is still here?"

"I don't think he is," Clay admitted. "But the younger Lieutenant, Steve Drumm, is talking to a doctor in the waiting room."

"Then I'll talk to him," Edith determined. "Will you be here with Amory, Clay? I hate to leave him here alone."

"Yes, of course I'll be here," said Clay. "You run along now and find Steve."

Edith gave him a shaky smile. "Thank you, Clay." She hurried off. "I won't be long."

xxxx

"I'm worried about Jimmy and Mrs. Norden."

Perry glanced over as Della spoke. He was driving through the dark streets of Los Angeles, having resolved to take Della home but undergoing a roundabout route to get there. He and Della were both tense and alert, searching each street for some trace of Andy. Perry had wondered if Della would be able to sleep even if he ever did get her home. This statement certainly indicated that sleep was the farthest thing from her mind.

"What do you think we should do about it?" Perry asked.

Della sighed. "I don't know. I don't want to intrude. Since they left the hospital in such a hurry, maybe they just want to be alone. But I can't help feeling like I wouldn't feel right if we didn't try to do something to help them."

Perry glanced at the dashboard clock. "Jimmy would probably take Mrs. Norden back to her apartment," he said. "They might both be there now." He turned right at the next corner. "Shall we see?"

It was a rhetorical question. He could practically feel Della's relieved smile as she relaxed.

". . . The police checked Andy's house, didn't they?" Della said after a moment.

Perry nodded. "Tragg stopped there on his way home. He couldn't find anything available to help the situation."

"Nothing seems to help the situation," Della said sadly. "Perry, what are we going to do? None of us understand what's going on at all. We don't even know where to look for Andy other than Griffith Park."

"And the doctor won't let anyone speak with Amory Fallon until morning," Perry added. "The police will likely try to question Mrs. Fallon, but I doubt she'll have any ideas for them."

"Amory wouldn't tell her if he knew something was wrong?" Della surmised.

"I don't know," Perry said. "He might or he might not. But he seemed honestly confused at the hospital. If he has any current enemies, I'm not sure he's aware of them."

"What a terrible situation," Della said in dismayed sympathy.

Perry nodded. "Yes, for all concerned."

Arriving at Mrs. Norden's apartment complex, he parked and got out while Della did likewise. They went up the walk and inside, with Perry leading the way to the correct apartment.

"I don't think I've ever been here," Della said. She glanced up and down the modest corridors with appreciative curiosity. It was a nice building.

"No, I don't think you have." Perry found the right apartment and rang the bell.

In the next moment the door was flung open by a worried Jimmy. He rocked back, staring at the visitors in surprise. "Oh, Mr. Mason, Miss Street," he greeted. "I thought maybe it was the police. Is there any news?"

"Unfortunately no," Perry said with regret. "We thought perhaps we should check on you and Mrs. Norden after your hasty departure from the hospital."

Jimmy's eyes flickered with disappointment, but he nodded in gratitude. "Oh. Thank you, both of you. That was thoughtful." He sighed. "Mama Norden is just beside herself. I'm not much better off, really."

"Who is it, Jimmy?" Mrs. Norden called from the kitchen.

"It's Mr. Mason and Miss Street," Jimmy called back. "They wanted to make sure we're alright."

"Alright? _Alright?_ We're fine! It's Andy who's missing!" Mrs. Norden cried in anguish. There was the sound of a pan clattering. Mrs. Norden might be trying to fix something to eat, perhaps in an attempt to get her mind on something else.

Della bit her lip. Would they really be able to do much good here? Maybe it would have been better if they had just kept searching, no matter how vain an act it was.

But Jimmy held the door open. "Come in, please," he said.

"We'll just stay a few minutes," Perry said as they walked in.

That was Della's feeling too. She looked around the quaint living room. The line of pictures and medals and other awards on the mantle soon caught her eye. Almost subconsciously, she took a step forward.

Jimmy followed her gaze. "That's Otto," he said, nodding to one of the pictures.

Della nodded. "I knew it must be. Andy's talked about him so much, but I've never actually seen what he looked like. He was a handsome man."

"And a dedicated policeman." Jimmy sighed. "He's come back from the afterlife now and then to help out. I wish he could show up about now and tell us where Andy is."

"That would be nice, wouldn't it," Perry said. "But hardly anything ever comes that easily."

Mrs. Norden came into the living room, holding a saucepan. "Mr. Mason, Miss Street, it was kind of you to come," she said. "I was going to make some hot chocolate. Would you care for some?"

"That sounds delicious," Della smiled. "Yes, we'd love some. If it's not any trouble, of course."

"No trouble. I have to do something or my mind goes crazy!" Mrs. Norden turned to go back in the kitchen.

Jimmy stared after her thoughtfully. "You know, I just thought of something."

Both Perry and Della came to attention. "What is it, Jimmy?" Perry asked.

"Is it something to do with Andy?" Della added, hopeful.

"Yeah." Jimmy looked to them. "I remember two nights ago, it seemed like someone was watching him when he came out of the station to go with me to dinner."

"Someone was watching him?!" Perry gave him a sharp look. "Did this person follow you to dinner?"

"No," Jimmy said. "I guess that's why I just dismissed it. But I remember thinking at the time that the guy was paying a lot of attention to Andy. It didn't seem like he was looking at anything else."

"Did you get a good look at him?" Perhaps they were grasping at straws, but Perry hoped desperately that this was a useable lead. Della and Jimmy clearly hoped likewise.

"He was tall . . . salt-and-pepper hair . . . a beige trenchcoat. . . ." Jimmy sighed. "That's all I really saw."

"Well, it's something, anyway," Perry said. "You'd better get that information to Lieutenant Tragg or Lieutenant Drumm."

Jimmy nodded. "Believe me, Mr. Mason, I'm going to." He hurried to the phone. "I'll call right now."

Della watched him dial. "Oh, I hope this helps," she exclaimed.

"Maybe it will," Perry said. "Only, supposing this person was keeping close tabs on Andy, how did Amory end up being mistaken for Andy and attacked?"

Della shook her head. "There could be more than one person and they split up. Maybe it was the other one who attacked Amory. Or maybe the man following Andy lost him and found Amory instead."

"It's possible," Perry agreed. "In any case, I'm afraid this mystery just became more complicated."

xxxx

Andy stumbled through the shrubbery and trees, desperate and limping. His leg was bleeding from the sharp wire and throbbing from both the wound and the fence's electrocution. He had taken off his tie as a clumsy and makeshift bandage, but he doubted it would do much good for very long.

They were still coming for him; he could hear the dogs barking down below. If they brought out a Jeep or some other vehicle, he would never have a chance.

If he had only had the time! He could have looked for something like that himself. Not that he would be able to drive it anyway; hot-wiring was not among his skills. He unfortunately knew _how_ to do it, but only from smart-aleck delinquents. He had never tried it. And by the time he could have sorted it out, he probably would have been cornered.

His leg twisted under him and he went down with a choked cry. Immediately he begun pushing himself up again. He could not afford to spare any time. Grabbing a nearby branch in his panic, he struggled to his feet and used it as a crutch as he ran.

_Oh, please help me, _he frantically prayed. _I don't know what to do. I don't know how to get out of this mess!_

What if they knew by now that he was Lieutenant Anderson, as he had said? He would be killed on the spot if they caught up.

If they still thought he was Amory Fallon, it might be just as bad. They would keep pressuring him about the letter and the clues it might contain. If he kept insisting on the truth, that he had no idea, eventually they would grow bored and maybe even start harming him. Or worse, harming Amory Fallon's loved ones.

He was running and limping blindly now, tearing through the trees. He had no idea that he was at the top of a hill until the ground disappeared and his balance was lost and he was tumbling down the other side.

He collapsed with a groan at the bottom. Now his chest and ribs were hurting too. Wonderful.

For a moment he lay where he was, fighting to get his bearings and properly orient himself. The moon was shining bright, revealing that it seemed the wilderness continued as far as he could see. But it _did_ look like a dirt road, too. Maybe if he followed it for a while he would find something or someone who could help him.

He groped for the branch, and finding it, used it to push himself up once more. He could still hear the dogs in the distance. There was no time to lose. He staggered onward, heading for the road.

It was not an unused path of nothing but untouched dirt. With added hope he noted the straight lines and patterns going down the middle. A vehicle had passed this way sometime recently. Unless it belonged at the compound, maybe the driver was friendly and not far away.

The latter, at least, seemed not to be true. The path felt endless. Andy limped on, tense, his heart pounding. At any moment he could hear the roar of some all-terrain vehicle and know that they were after him, coming up the hill. From there it would not take long to come down the opposite side and locate him.

Suddenly a beam of light was right in his eyes. He stopped, squinting, raising his free hand to shield himself.

"Who's here?"

It was an older man, on guard and concerned, but not gruff or unkind. Andy would have to take a chance on him being an ally.

"Lieutenant Anderson, LAPD," he said. "I'm sorry, I don't have my badge to prove it to you. I know how ridiculous this will probably sound, but I've been held hostage in a compound on the other side of a hill back there." He gestured behind him with his hand.

The flashlight slowly lowered. "That place? I always knew something funny was going on over there."

"Do you believe me then?" Andy wondered if he dared to hope.

"I suppose so," was the reply. "I don't know any reason why you'd lie to me, after all. I'm no one especially important."

"Who are you?"

"Jefferson Pike. I work at the gun club at the lodge up there." He pointed up into the darkness of a mountain's silhouette. "I was on my way back from picking up supplies, but I had to stop and change a dad-blamed tire. I was just getting ready to start up again now."

Now Andy _was_ filled with hope. "Jefferson Pike?!" he exclaimed. "Then you're Mr. Burger's friend!"

"Mr. Burger?" Jefferson peered at him more closely. "You know Mr. Burger, the district attorney?"

"Yes!" Andy declared. "I've worked with him on many cases. But more than that, he's a dear friend. He's told me about you. So has Lieutenant Tragg."

"Mr. Burger's mentioned you, too," Jefferson replied. "I think. You said your name is Anderson?"

Andy nodded. "That's right."

"He said you're a bright young police officer."

"That's kind of him," Andy said. "I try to live up to that."

He stiffened as the sound of vicious barking carried on the air. He spun about, looking towards the hill. It was still in darkness, but he was not about to take chances if he could help it.

He turned back to Mr. Pike. "Please, will you take me with you? The men from the compound are after me with their dogs. I wouldn't impose for long; I could call Lieutenant Tragg from the lodge and he could send someone after me. Or I could even borrow a spare vehicle and drive into the city myself."

Jefferson's eyes widened. "I was wondering what all the ruckus was. I've been hearing those dogs ever since my old tire went out and I had to stop. Of course I'll take you with me, Lieutenant. It's not an imposition at all. I'd be glad to mess up their plans a bit. Them and their secrecy and those dogs never felt right to me. I thought something was up at that place of theirs."

Andy limped forward. "Thank you," he said in relief. "We should hurry; once they're over the hill and see the road here, they can easily catch up."

"Well, there's not much we can do about them seeing the tire tracks, unfortunately," Jefferson said. "But if we're out of sight, we might be able to lose them. This is still a long way from the lodge, and it's not the only place up in the canyon there."

He frowned as he observed Andy's pace and the blood. "Why, you're hurt!"

"It's not bad," Andy said. "It will keep until we get there."

"Maybe so, but I could help you to my truck," Jefferson offered.

"Thank you," Andy said. Normally he would decline, but the dogs chilled his blood and made him reconsider. They sounded so much closer now. "I'd appreciate it."

With Jefferson's assistance, Andy was soon in the passenger seat of the strong vehicle. Jefferson walked around to the driver's side and got in, revving the engine. Soon they were vanishing into the night and the thickening clusters of trees.

Andy gave a silent prayer of thanks for finding someone he knew he could trust. And he also prayed that they truly would vanish into the night and not be found by those who would do them harm.

The last thing he wanted was to drag an innocent person into this disaster with him.


	6. Fights

**Notes: Oh, for anyone unaware, Jefferson Pike is from season 3's **_**The Prudent Prosecutor**_**, which is awesome. I've been looking for a way to get him in here for a long time, so I'm thrilled to have found an opening!**

**Chapter Six**

Steve looked up as Edith hurried into the waiting room and directly towards him. Excusing himself from the doctor, he walked over to meet her. "Mrs. Fallon?"

She nodded. "Lieutenant Drumm?" She came to stand in front of him. "Please, what's going to happen to Amory? You're not going to put him in any danger, are you?"

Steve's eyes widened in surprise. "Why, no. Of course not. Not if I can help it."

Edith bit her lip. "Oh, I hope not. Mr. Clay thought maybe you would try to set Amory up as bait in case the criminals come here."

"He did, did he?" Steve frowned in the direction of the hall. "I can assure you, Mrs. Fallon, we wouldn't try anything like that unless your husband agreed to it." He paused. "I have to ask, do you know of any enemies he has who might be out to get him now?"

Edith shook her head. "No, Lieutenant. I can't think of anyone. Amory's only enemies are either in prison or . . . or dead."

"I understand. But I'll still have to talk with Mr. Fallon about this." Steve looked edgy and worried. "I don't suppose he's awake now?"

"Well, he wasn't a few minutes ago," said Edith, slowly. "But I guess we could go back and see." Instead she stayed standing where she was. "The doctor didn't want anyone to talk with him until morning, though."

"I know, Mrs. Fallon." Steve sighed. "But you understand we're very concerned. This problem affects not only Lieutenant Anderson, but Mr. Fallon as well. I was just talking with the doctor now, trying to make him understand the urgency of the matter. The sooner I can speak with Mr. Fallon, the better."

Edith nodded. "Let's go see then."

Worried herself, she led Lieutenant Drumm out of the waiting room and down the corridor to Amory's room. Clay was no longer standing in the hall, but when she pushed open the door Clay was inside the room.

He looked up at the sound of the door. "Oh, you found him," he greeted. "Hello, Steve."

Steve nodded to him. "Hello, Clay." He tried to look around the restaurant owner. "Is Mr. Fallon awake, by any chance?"

"I'm awake," Amory mumbled. "Who are you?"

Steve briskly walked to the bedside. "Lieutenant Drumm." He held out his badge. "I'm sorry, but I need to ask you a few questions. I know it isn't morning yet, but this could be a matter of life or death."

"I'll do whatever I can to help, Lieutenant," Amory said. "I'm just afraid it won't be much."

Steve sat down. "Sometimes the most insignificant clue can crack a case," he said. "Mr. Fallon, can you think of anyone who might want to hurt you?"

Amory frowned. "No, I can't. Unless . . ." He trailed off, staring at the opposite wall.

"Unless what?" Steve prompted. "Mr. Fallon . . ."

"I know, I know!" Amory ran a hand through his hair. "I was just thinking. My former business partner got himself into a lot of trouble before he was killed several years ago. I thought all of his illegal deals had been uncovered. But, just supposing they weren't . . . I guess there's always the chance some of Ned's enemies could think I know more than I do and try to take me because of it."

"Ned . . . your business partner's name was Ned Thompson, wasn't it?"

"Yes."

Steve scratched something down on his notepad. "It's something to look into, at least. Can you think of anything else? Maybe a name he mentioned that you never knew the importance of?"

"Not offhand, no." Amory shrugged. "Anyway, Lieutenant, does it really seem likely that any of Ned's enemies would wait all this time to contact me? He was killed over six years ago."

"It doesn't seem likely," Steve agreed. "But in my line of work you learn not to discount any possibility." He moved to close the notepad and then hesitated. "Has anyone strange contacted you at all in the past few days?"

"No. Everything's been quite peaceful, as a matter of fact."

"What about this person you were supposed to meet tonight?"

Amory blinked in surprise. "I told Lieutenant Tragg about him."

"You just mentioned he was a business client," Steve reminded him. "Who was he?"

Amory leaned into the pillows. "J.K. Stratton, of Stratton Works, Inc. He's interested in purchasing enough paint, both indoor and outdoor types, for several new subsidiary buildings."

"It's strange, isn't it, that during all the commotion, none of the police ran across him at the Griffith Observatory?"

Amory was honestly bewildered. "They didn't?"

"No. And everyone there was questioned about Lieutenant Anderson." Steve peered at the businessman. "Mr. Fallon, do you have proof that this J.K. Stratton is a legitimate client?"

"Well . . . I've heard of the company," Amory replied. "It's very reputable."

"There's the chance it's just a front for something illegal," Steve said. "Or even that while it and Mr. Stratton are above reproach, you weren't contacted by the real Mr. Stratton."

"An impostor?!" Amory started to rise off the bed.

Edith hurried to his side. "Oh, Amory, please don't!" She tried to gently push him down. "Lieutenant Drumm, he shouldn't be upset!"

"I'm almost finished, Mrs. Fallon," Steve said. "Mr. Fallon, it _is_ possible. Isn't it?"

Amory sighed but nodded. "Yes," he conceded.

"And that would only make it stranger," Steve said as he got up. "Lieutenant Anderson was lured out by a so-called informant who may have been a fraud. You were lured out by a business client who might be a fraud."

"You're making it sound like we're both in this thing up to our necks!" Amory exclaimed.

"And you might be," Steve said. "There's too many strange coincidences to convince me they _are_ just coincidences.

"One last question. Why did he want to meet at the Observatory? Isn't that an unusual location to discuss business?"

"Oh, he said something about dropping off his daughter and that we could talk about our deal while we walked around the grounds," Amory said.

Steve nodded and closed the pad. "Thank you, Mr. Fallon. I'll look into this."

"You'll let me know as soon as you find out what's going on?" Amory demanded.

"As soon as I can," Steve said. "Goodnight, Mr. Fallon, Mrs. Fallon. Clay." He walked out of the room.

Clay was the first to break the stunned silence. "Well! What a thing to be happening, isn't it? All of this cloak-and-dagger intrigue, mistaken identities, impostors. . . ." He shook his head. "Truth is truly stranger than fiction."

"I don't understand it," Amory said. "So help me, I don't. It's bizarre enough to think that someone is after just one of us. Now there's the chance that we're _both_ targets?!" He gripped the blanket. "I want to meet this mysterious Lieutenant Anderson. Maybe then I can understand why someone might be out to get us both!"

"They have to find Lieutenant Anderson first," Edith said. "Oh, Amory, please try to calm down. This is why the doctor didn't want you talking to anyone yet."

"Hang the doctor," Amory growled. "I'm fine, Edith. It's just a bump on the head!" But he winced as he spoke too loud. He sank into the mattress, holding a hand to his throbbing left temple. He would be quiet now.

Edith sank against the chair, overwhelmed.

xxxx

The ride into the canyons and up to the lodge was most uneventful. Andy supposed he should be able to fully relax, but he could not seem to. There was always the chance that his pursuers would get a vehicle and find the road. From there, sooner or later they would find their way to the lodge.

Jefferson parked near a side door and got out. "Well, this is it," he said. "I'll get you inside and we'll see about that leg. Then you can call Lieutenant Tragg."

"Thank you," Andy acknowledged. Opening his door, he eased his way out of the truck, putting all pressure on his uninjured leg. He limped to the lodge's door, with Jefferson in tow, and braced himself while Jefferson unlocked and opened it.

"There's guests tonight," Jefferson said, "but they're all in the cabins, unless someone decided to stay up late in the lodge. We'll still have to be quiet, though; the staff sleeps here."

"Of course," Andy nodded, lowering his voice. He staggered inside and to the nearest chair. It was a relief to collapse into it.

Jefferson shut and locked the door. "I'll get a first-aid kit and fix up your leg," he said. "The telephone's on the table there."

Andy reached for it. "Thank you," he said again.

He paused, his hand over the buttons. What number should he dial? If he just wanted the police, he should call the station, of course. But if he wanted Tragg in specific, would he be there or at home? Andy had no idea what had been happening since his abduction. The only thing he knew for certain was that Tragg was worried sick.

At last he pecked out the number of the station. He should really call there first, and anyway, Tragg might still be there. Besides, he did not want to wake Lucy if she was asleep.

Which was doubtful, if she knew. He treated Lucy like a younger sister and she in turn considered him like her brother. She would be devastated if she was aware he was missing. And Tragg surely would have told her.

The phone seemed to ring far longer than it should. But at last there was a click and the desk sergeant answered, sounding half-awake.

"This is Lieutenant Anderson," Andy greeted. "Is Lieutenant Tragg there?"

"No, he isn't. . . . Lieutenant Anderson?!" The sleepy sergeant was instantly awake. "Where are you, Sir? Are you alright?"

Andy glanced at his leg. "Nothing that won't quickly mend. I'm at the . . ." He groaned inwardly, realizing he did not know his location. "I'm at a lodge in the canyons. I was abducted, but I escaped. I'm with a man named Jefferson Pike. And the people who took me may still be coming after me. They're quartered at a strange bunker down the back road from the canyon."

"That's terrible! Do you know the name of the lodge, Lieutenant?"

Andy looked over in relief as Jefferson came back. "Just a minute." The name was quickly given and passed on.

"I'll have some officers out there right away, Lieutenant," the sergeant assured him.

"Good. Do you know where Lieutenant Tragg is right now? And Sergeant Brice?" Andy was still concerned about the whereabouts of Brice and the possibility of him having been hurt. It was so frustrating, not knowing.

"I don't know, Lieutenant. The last time I saw either of them was several hours ago."

"But it was after eight?"

A bit of understanding dawned. "Yes, Sir. Long after."

Andy relaxed. "So Brice is alright then."

"He's worried about you, Lieutenant, but other than that he's fine."

"Thank you. I'll let you go now."

"Help should be there within the hour, Sir."

They hung up and Andy sighed, leaning back as he watched Jefferson tend to his leg. "How bad is it?" he asked.

"Oh, it'll be fine," Jefferson assured him. "It's kind of white here. Too white. Looks like you burned yourself."

"I did, on an electric fence I had to vault over," Andy wearily replied.

Jefferson shook his head. "You've had a strange time," he declared. "It's like something out of a spy picture."

"That's a good way to describe it," Andy grunted.

He took up the phone again. "I haven't been able to reach Lieutenant Tragg yet," he said. "I was hoping to talk to him personally to let him know I'm alright."

"Go right ahead," Jefferson said.

"I'll pay for the costs of the phone calls, if they're long-distance," Andy said as he dialed Tragg's cellphone. He cringed as Jefferson tried to clean the wound, but he made himself focus on the ringing phone instead of the sting.

"That's strange," he muttered after a moment.

"Hmm? What is?" Jefferson glanced up.

"There's no answer." Andy set the receiver down. "He always keeps his phone with him." It was probably just turned off or on Silent, but after the night Andy had come through he was imagining up all sorts of things in his mind. He ran a hand over his eyes.

"Well, maybe he just dozed off to sleep without wanting to," Jefferson said. "What with it being so late and everything so stressful and all."

"Maybe," Andy said slowly. He rather doubted that one, but . . . well, of course it was possible. And if the phone was on Silent or turned off, Tragg would never realize it was ringing if he was asleep.

"You can always try again," Jefferson said. He leaned back. "There! All done."

Andy looked down at the bandage. "Thank you," he said, pushing his pant leg over the injury. "You've been very kind."

"Oh, I'd help anyone who needed it, I reckon," Jefferson said as he collected the items from the first-aid kit and stood. "But it's a pleasure to meet a friend of Mr. Burger's."

"Likewise." Andy reached for the phone again, the dial tone sounding in his ear as he tapped out Tragg's number. The phone rang twice and then cut off. Now nothing but dead silence met him. Frowning, he pressed the dial tone button once, then twice.

"What's wrong?" Jefferson blinked.

Andy looked to him, the sudden concern shining in his eyes. "Mr. Pike, the line just went dead," he declared.

"What?!" Jefferson got up, stunned. "That's never happened before. The dad-blamed thing; it's not even storming outside!"

Andy swallowed hard. ". . . Are there any guns in the lodge?" he asked, praying that weaponry was not exclusive to the gun club.

"Of course," Jefferson said in surprise. "There's some hunting rifles in the den. And there's a couple more guns in closets and drawers. Why?"

"Because I'm afraid there _is_ a storm, Mr. Pike." A definite shadow passed by the window. "The only thing is, this storm is being engineered by men."

Jefferson's eyes widened. "You mean . . . ?"

"I don't think the line went dead by accident." Andy gripped the chair arm. "Somehow, we've been followed."

"That's impossible!" Jefferson exclaimed. "The road was too dark. We would've seen another pair of headlights out there, or heard another vehicle, or something! They couldn't just creep along like a shadow so we wouldn't spot them!"

"I don't know how they did it, but I'm positive they've done it." Andy bolted out of the chair. "Bring me one of those guns. Please!"

Even as he leaped away from the furniture, the window's glass shattered as a bullet soared through, embedding itself in the back of the plush chair.

xxxx

There was a very good reason why Lieutenant Tragg had not answered his phone.

Shortly before Andy made his first attempt at calling, two rough men nearly ripped the front door off its hinges as they kicked it in. Tragg and Lucy, who had been sitting in the living room without much to say, jumped up in shock.

"Who are you?!" Tragg demanded. "What on Earth . . . !" He reached for his gun out of instinct. He had not as yet taken it off. Now he was grateful for that.

"You've got some nerve, barging in our house like this!" Lucy fumed.

Neither intruder was moved. "Look," one of them snapped, "no more games. We know Lieutenant Anderson ain't the man in the hospital. We know some idiot made a mistake and knocked out the wrong guy. Now we want to know where the real McCoy is."

"Where you're hiding him," the second man added.

"We're not hiding him anywhere," Tragg growled. "We want to know where he is too."

"And if we knew, we wouldn't tell _you!_" Lucy declared.

Tragg drew his gun, pointing it at the rough characters. "You're both under arrest," he said.

Undaunted, one wretch kicked the ottoman into Tragg's path. "You'll have to catch us first," he said. "And somehow, Pops, I don't think you've got it in you."

Lucy shrieked.

Tragg managed to dodge the flying furniture just in time, but was promptly attacked by the second man. His arm was snatched and held fast as the duo began a mad struggle for the gun. It went off, firing harmlessly into the ceiling.

As the first man ran at the scene as well, intent on overwhelming the aged policeman, Lucy lifted a straight chair and brought it down hard on his back. "You stay away from him!" she wailed.

Dazed, the man fell to the floor.

Tragg had no time to be properly proud of his niece. He struck out with his free fist, catching the second man in the face. The intruder yelped and turned, spitting out a tooth.

"I'll make you pay my dentist bill, Cop!" he snarled.

"Fine," Tragg retorted. "You'll get the best care, right from the prison hospital."

Before his attacker could recover, Tragg had him in a chokehold. "Now, are you the one who _oh so bravely_ hit Amory Fallon over the head, believing he was Lieutenant Anderson?"

His voice had gone dangerously dark. The man in his grasp trembled.

"No," he rasped. "Neither of us did it. We were just sent to find out what happened to the real one."

Tragg's grip did not loosen. "Sent by whom?"

Suddenly the first man was flying through the air at him, making further conversation impossible. Still clutching his prisoner, Tragg rolled out of the way, resulting in the unfortunate assault failing miserably with a faceplant on the floor.

Lucy sprang onto the first man's back before he could get up. "Oh no you don't!" she cried. She pounded on his shoulders with both fists. "Tell us what's going on! Tell us who hired you and why!"

"We don't know!" the first man exclaimed in pain. "Get off, you crazy brat!" He swung out with one arm, managing to catch Lucy by the wrist and send her spiraling away from him to crash into a chair.

Tragg looked up with a jerk at her plight. "Lucy!"

That brief movement was enough to cause his captive to try again for the upper hand. He shoved the older man against the wall with force enough to spin stars through his vision. The gun, long lost in the struggle, now appeared in the unsavory thug's hand. He held it to Tragg's throat.

"Okay, you've put up a better fight than I thought you could," he growled. "But I've had enough. Now you're going to spill what we want to know, unless you want a little ventilation right here."

Tragg sneered at him amidst his dizziness. "If you kill me, you'll never find out what you want to know."

"A much better idea would be to use this girl here."

Both Tragg and his assailant snapped to attention. The first man was grabbing for Lucy to haul her out of the chair. She kicked and struggled, but in vain.

The second man's eyes lit up. "Of course. You wouldn't just let her be killed, would you, Pops?" He was the one sneering as he looked back to Tragg. "You could still talk even if she was dead. But you'd rather we didn't do that, right?"

The color drained from Tragg's face, but he kept himself composed. "You have the only gun, it seems," he said. "And I won't let you use it on her."

It was pressed harder against his throat. "There's nothing you can do about it," was the reply. "There's other ways of killing. Maybe my partner will try squeezing his arm around her pretty throat, ever so slowly, until she can't breathe at all. Meanwhile, if you move, you'll know that you might disturb my trigger finger and cause yourself an amateur tracheotomy."

"You haven't turned the safety off," Tragg retorted. "You don't dare endanger my life for real. And anyway, the deliberate killing of a police officer will bring the maximum sentence down on your head. I can't imagine you'd have such a deathwish. You're not the type."

"And what's my type?" the ruffian snarled.

"You're both cowards," Tragg said, looking from one to the other. "You don't mind beating people up, or shaking them down, if you make a fancy profit on it. But at the first hint of real danger to either one of you, you run like scared little rabbits."

"Do I look like I'm running?" The first man now had Lucy in a chokehold. He pressed his arm against her throat, harder, harder still, while she gasped and sputtered and gripped in vain at the firm hold.

"You're just proving you're a coward!" Tragg retorted, even as his heart and his stomach tied themselves in knots. "You're that afraid of what she can do to you? What a pathetic soul you truly are."

"_Shut up!"_ The second man slapped him hard across the face.

Tragg was undaunted. "You know, they say the truth is hard for the guilty to hear."

Without warning he kicked out, catching his captor in the stomach. With a stunned gasp the younger man fell back, still clutching Tragg's gun. Tragg had just enough leeway to deliver a knockout blow before the thug could come at him again. As he dropped to the floor like a sack of potatoes, the gun's rightful owner pulled the weapon away.

Lucy now stomped on the first man's foot. He yelped, loosening his grip just enough for her to start wiggling out from under his arm. She kicked him on the chin. "Don't you ever touch me again!" she yelled. He fell back, sitting down hard on the floor.

Tragg snapped his handcuffs on the second man before looking over. He pulled off his tie, waving it in the first man's face. "Had enough?" he smiled, pointing the gun with his other hand. "How about you just, uh, give yourself up peaceably?"

The first man finally gave a burned-out nod. "Who would've thought an old geezer and a ditzy dame could do this much damage?" he berated as Tragg tied him up with the tie. "Maybe it's time to get out of the business."

"Ditzy?!" Lucy's hands flew to her hips. "I get the best grades in my classes! I bet you couldn't win in a debate with me over the merits of ancient Greek philosophies and how they endure today."

He gave her a blank look. Lucy smirked. "I rest my case."

Tragg reached to take out his phone. "And I'm going to get a black-and-white out here," he grunted. "I'm surprised one isn't here already, with the rumpus we've been making."

He blinked in surprise to see the Missed Call light flashing. "Oh? What's this?" He flipped the phone open. "Someone was trying to call me from some lodge."

"Who would do that?" Lucy said in disbelief. "And at four in the morning?"

Tragg was already calling the number back. He could only think of one person who might do that—Andy. Or someone holding him hostage.

But there was no answer at the number now. Concerned, Tragg tried again, with the same result.

"Something isn't right," he muttered. Glancing at the two men on the floor, he added, "And I'm going to find out what."


	7. Helicopter

**Chapter Seven**

Andy and Mr. Pike only stared at the attacked chair for a moment before Mr. Pike whirled away. "In here!" he exclaimed, diving into an adjoining room. Grabbing a gun off the rack, he thrust it at Andy. "Take this!" He snatched another for himself.

Andy flipped off the lights as he accepted the weapon. "Thank you." Pressing himself against the wall, he inched his way back into the main room. All was silent outside; the shooters were probably trying to figure out where to aim now that they could not see.

Still keeping himself against the wall, Andy made his way to the nearest window and eased around just enough to see out while remaining concealed.

Jefferson had crept up behind him. "What's out there?" he hissed.

"It's hard to tell," Andy frowned. "The light from the moon is reflecting on what might be the barrel of a rifle behind that tree. And there's another around the corner of that building across the way." He nodded in its general direction. "But I can't see any people."

"What're they tryin' to do, anyway?!" Jefferson was angry now.

"I'm afraid that depends on whether or not they know I actually am a police officer," Andy admitted. "They mistook me for someone else and refused to believe the truth. If they still think I'm this other man, then they probably want to recapture me. If they're aware that I'm an officer of the law, they want to kill me."

Jefferson peered around Andy's shoulder, uneasy. "So for now we just wait 'em out and see what they try next?"

"I would say so," Andy nodded. "I don't want to fire and give our position away unless I have to. And I don't want to rouse up the staff and the guests."

The creaking on the stairs let them know that the former had already happened. Both whirled to face a disgruntled and half-asleep figure.

"See here, what's going on?" the newcomer growled. "It's too late for anyone to be out hunting."

"Oh, no one's hunting, Mr. Jameson," Jefferson answered.

"And please don't turn on the light!" Andy rushed to add. "Please! It's very important that you don't."

"Why?" Mr. Jameson retorted. "And coming to think of it, who are _you?_ Your voice isn't familiar."

"He's a policeman, Mr. Jameson!" Jefferson interjected. "I found him while I was coming back and I gave him a ride here. Remember how I _knew_ something was wrong with that dad-blamed bunker? Well, he was being held prisoner there!"

"How do you even know he told you the truth?" Mr. Jameson growled, irritable from interrupted sleep.

"Please be quiet, Mr. Jameson," Andy begged. "I'll explain everything later, in detail. They've already shot out one of the windows. That must have been what woke you up. If they hear us talking, they might shoot some more."

"Bah!" Jameson stormed back up the stairs. "If you want to play cowboys and Indians, keep it down."

Andy bit back a retort. This was not the time to begin an argument.

Apparently his fears were realized. Another window shattered, closer to his position, as a bullet smashed through it.

Jameson froze on the stairs. "What was that?!"

"Dad-blame it! We're under attack!" Jefferson cried. "That's what we've been trying to tell you!"

Andy stuck his rifle out the broken window and aimed for the tree as he returned fire. A bit of bark was clipped and the barrel of the opposing gun vanished.

A window across the room blew out next. Jameson yelped and dropped to the stairs, cowering as this bullet drilled into one of the spokes of the banister.

"They're over _there,_ too!" Jefferson fumed. Taking his own gun, he made his way to that window and fired through the hole. Their unknown assailant yelped.

Jameson looked up in alarm. "Did you shoot him?!"

"Sounds like it," Jefferson said. "Don't see any body, though. It probably wasn't too bad. Serves him right!"

"What if some of the guests come out of the cabins and get shot?" Jameson exclaimed.

That was certainly one of Andy's concerns. "I'm afraid at this point, all we can do is pray that they don't," he said.

When gunfire soared in through three windows in rapid succession, they were officially outnumbered. Andy and Jefferson ducked, then returned fire as quickly as possible. Jameson stayed dumbly on the stairs, overwhelmed by all that was happening.

"Confound it, Mr. Jameson, why don't you help?!" Jefferson demanded. "We need every able body we can get!"

"I've never been in a gunfight before," Jameson protested. "I don't know what to do!"

"Well, I haven't been in one either, but it's not hard to catch on," Jefferson retorted. "Just point and shoot!"

"But for Heaven's sake, be careful!" Andy added.

He gripped the rifle as he waited for their enemies to make the next move. He regretted dragging these people into his problem. Maybe at the hill he should have simply taken whatever came, instead of running off with Mr. Pike.

But no, he could not have done that. He was too deeply involved in this disaster. And the strange letter he still carried in his pocket was evidence that needed to be turned over to the police department and read by Amory Fallon.

Jameson had now retrieved a gun from a cabinet and was positioning himself by the third window from which bullets had entered. "We run a nice, respectable lodge here, Mr. Police Officer," he growled. "I don't much appreciate you bringing all of this trouble down on us!"

"I'm sorry, Mr. Jameson," Andy said in all sincerity. "I wasn't trying to bring any of it to you. I had hoped they wouldn't track us here, at least not until the backup forces arrived."

"Backup?! There's going to be more of you?!"

"_Yes,_ and you should be grateful for that, at least," Andy shot back. ". . . Although they don't know a shootout has started," he added quietly, mostly to himself. But they knew it was a possibility that Andy would be tracked here. Would they come prepared?

The next several minutes were a blur of flying bullets on both sides. It did not take long for the rest of the staff to wake up and come downstairs in stunned and alarmed bewilderment. And, Mr. Jameson's wife noted, the lights were on in every guest cabin. She could see them from the attic window.

"At least no one's been foolish enough to try to come outside," Andy remarked as he reloaded the rifle.

"Oh, they wouldn't do that," Jefferson said. "Not with all the ruckus going on."

Andy sighed. "Some people would."

"If they wanted you alive, seems they would've hollered out their terms by now," Jefferson remarked.

"I agree," Andy frowned. He had become convinced that they were trying to kill him almost as soon as this gunfight had started.

Another bullet soared through his window. He returned fire in its general direction.

Suddenly the grounds outside were illuminated by a bright beam. The men at the windows gasped, shielding their eyes. The shooting ceased; a motor outside grew louder and louder.

"Attention—this is the police! Drop your weapons and surrender."

Andy dared to look outside. "A police helicopter," he said in relief.

Now the men who had been firing were very visible. Their hands emerged from behind trees and other objects as they released the guns and reached for the sky. Police officers came down from a rope ladder, guns in hand.

Andy stood, still holding the rifle. "Hello!" he called through the now completely shattered window. "This is Lieutenant Anderson. You're a sight for sore eyes."

One of the officers turned to face him. "Lieutenant Anderson?" He grinned broadly. "Lieutenant Tragg will be ecstatic to hear you're safe!"

Andy smiled, pushing back his hat. "Where is Lieutenant Tragg? I tried to call him earlier, before the telephone line was cut. There wasn't any answer."

"He was tied up at the moment," the officer replied. "He'll tell you all about it himself. He's coming in on a second helicopter that took off a few minutes ago."

"Oh really?" Andy leaned back, amused and touched. So the message had gotten through. And even though other police were already handling the matter, Tragg had not intended to stay behind. He had come looking for Andy in all determination.

"Your cousin's on it too," the officer said. "And Sergeant Brice. And you've got a lot of other very worried friends back in the city."

"Yes," Andy nodded. "I know."

"Meanwhile," the officer continued, "maybe you'd like to come out here and join us in questioning these troublemakers, Lieutenant."

Andy smiled. "I most certainly would."

Mr. Jameson regarded the exchange with bushy narrowed eyes, still clutching his rifle. "So is it all over now?" he demanded. "We can go check on the guests and go back to bed?"

"It's over," Andy said, turning away from the window, "but I'm afraid you'll need to give a statement about what happened."

"Oh, for Heaven's sake!" Jameson thumped his gun on the floor. "It's always something. Can't it all wait?"

"Well, personally, I'd rather get it all over with now," Jefferson drawled. "I'd sleep easier knowing I didn't have to worry about getting up to make a statement."

Jameson sighed. "You're probably right." He gripped the gun as he walked to the door. "I'm going to check on the guests first. They must be scared out of their heads."

Andy glanced back. "Uh, Mr. Jameson, you might be asked to leave your gun here. There's no danger now; all of the gunmen have been arrested."

"Tarnation!" But Jameson laid the gun down. "I've had enough of gunmen, and police, and all of this nonsense!"

Andy could not help feeling guilty. "I'm sorry," he said. "I'm sure the department will pay for all of these damages. And if that doesn't work out . . ." He cringed. "I'll pay for all of it myself."

"On your salary?" Jameson shook his head. "Oh, I wouldn't expect that of you. I expect _them_ to pay!" He gestured out the window in the general direction of the gunmen.

"That sounds fair to me," Jefferson nodded.

"We'll see," Andy said, relaxing nevertheless at the proposition. He really didn't have the money to spare.

He stepped outside and to where the sullen men were being handcuffed. He frowned. None of them looked familiar.

One of them caught his eye and glowered. "Hey, Cop."

Andy walked over to him. "So you believe I'm a police officer now?"

"Why do you think we were shooting?" The sniper shrugged. "You should've seen the boss when your picture was dug up. He was fit to chomp through metal."

"I can imagine," Andy said.

"There's other officers on their way to the bunker now, Sir," a police corporal informed him.

Andy glanced to him. "Good," he nodded.

The sniper laughed. "Maybe, but all they'll find is an empty place."

"What?!" Andy whirled back. "They couldn't clear it out that fast!"

"Watch them. The boss has had to vacate places before. He's not going to get caught. Not this time."

"Wonderful." Andy frowned, considering this information. He could, unfortunately, believe it was true.

The sound of another helicopter brought everyone's attention to the sky. It soon landed near the first, its occupants leaping out almost before it came to a complete halt.

"Andy?!" That was Tragg, insisting on being out first.

Andy headed towards him. "I'm alright, Lieutenant," he called.

Another figure ran out ahead of Tragg, reaching Andy first. "Andy! Oh, for crying out loud." Jimmy pulled him into a hug. "It's really you this time, isn't it?"

Baffled, Andy slowly returned his cousin's embrace. ". . . Yes, it's really me. _This_ time?!" He pulled back, staring at Jimmy in bewilderment. "What are you talking about?"

Tragg caught up now, resting his hand on Andy's shoulder. "Well, let's just say it's a long story. I never believed in doubles, until I first met you. Now we've got a fellow in a hospital bed who we thought was you but who isn't."

Andy cringed. "Let me guess. A man named Amory Fallon?"

"Uh huh." Tragg blinked. "How did you know?"

Andy nodded towards the gunmen. "The people who took me . . . well, they thought I was him. And I have some kind of a letter supposedly written to him by his business partner before his death."

"Oh really?" Tragg stared in amazement. "What does it say?"

"I'll show it to you, back in the city," Andy said.

He looked to Sergeant Brice, who had gotten out with the others but had waited patiently for them to finish talking. "Sergeant." Andy nodded to him. "I'm glad to see you weren't hurt at the park."

"Oh no, Lieutenant," Brice said. "I'm fine. By the time I got off the radio and came looking for you, there was no one around." He looked down. "I'm sorry."

"Brice, it wasn't your fault," Andy said in amazement. "You had to take that call."

"Yes, Lieutenant," Brice nodded. "I know. But I went along to help you, and then I wasn't any use at all."

"_I_ wasn't any use myself," Andy frowned. "I was unconscious before I knew what had hit me." He winced. "I guess everyone has been worried about me."

"Worried?" Tragg shook his head. "Oh no. We were sure you were alright. We just thought we'd tear the place apart looking for you for the fun of it." Now he was the one drawing Andy into a hug. "Oh Andy. . . . We didn't know if you were alive or dead!"

"I'm sorry," Andy said with regret as he returned it. "I didn't want to worry anyone. I tried to get away as soon as I could."

"I know you would." Tragg pulled back. "Well, let's question these vermin and get it over with. But first I'll put a call through to Los Angeles. Lucy is staying with Erna Norden at the moment. They're waiting for the news."

"They both wanted to come along," Jimmy put in.

"They would," Andy smiled fondly. "But I'm glad they weren't allowed to; it could've been dangerous."

"That's why we insisted on them staying behind," Tragg said.

"Lieutenant?"

Both Lieutenants looked up at the voice. The pilot was leaning out of the helicopter.

"What is it?" Tragg asked. "Did the officers reach the bunker yet?"

"That's the problem, Sir," the pilot frowned. "They just checked in over the radio. The bunker's empty; no one's there."

"What?!" Tragg stared, agape. "It isn't humanly possible for them to clear out so fast!"

Andy drew a long, frustrated sigh. "Unfortunately, that's what these men told me was happening."

And the men all looked highly smug. Tragg glowered at the lot of them. "Well, whatever. We'll deal with the setback. Sergeant, did they find anything there? Anything at all?"

"Nothing, Sir," was the reply.

Tragg muttered under his breath. Louder he said, "Alright then. Call the police station. Have them put a call through to Mrs. Erna Norden and let her and Lucy know that Andy is safe and we're coming in."

"Yes, Sir!" the Sergeant said, perking up at this order.

Andy looked to Tragg, suddenly realizing something. "Where's Lieutenant Drumm?" he asked.

"He went with the group checking the bunker," Tragg said. "He'll meet us in the city."

"Good," Andy nodded. But then he frowned, watching as Sergeant Brice escaped them to question the gunmen. "Lieutenant, Brice doesn't blame himself for . . ."

Tragg sighed. "Well, maybe somewhat. I suppose you would too, if your positions had been reversed."

"Yes." Andy pushed back his hat. "I'll have to talk more with him later."

Jimmy was glancing down at Andy's torn clothes. "What happened to your pants?" he exclaimed.

". . . Oh." Andy glanced down too. "I had a run-in with a barbed-wire fence."

Tragg frowned. "How much of a run-in?" He could clearly see the blood, and through the tear, the bandage.

"Nothing serious," Andy assured him.

"It'd better not be," Tragg grunted. "But after we get back to Los Angeles, you should have it checked out by a doctor. Then you can meet your long-lost twin."

"I've been wondering about that," Andy said.

"He's a case," Tragg said, shaking his head. "A bonafide case."

xxxx

To their relief, Andy's injuries were, indeed, nothing serious. And while the others were en route to reunite with their friend, Tragg led Andy down the hospital corridor to Amory Fallon's room.

"He's awake," Tragg said. "I looked in on him while the doctor was examining you. He's just as interested in this meeting as you are."

"I'm sure he is," Andy said.

Tragg knocked, then pushed the door open. Amory looked over, about to speak when he caught a glimpse of Andy. His eyes glittered in astonishment.

"It's like looking in a mirror," he gasped.

Andy entered the room. "That's exactly what I was just thinking," he declared. "No wonder Lieutenant Tragg was stunned when he met me for the first time." He held out his hand. "Andrew Anderson."

"Amory Fallon." Amory took Andy's hand, giving it a firm shake. "And this is my wife Edith. After all this, it's good to finally meet you."

"And how," Andy said.

He next extended his hand to Edith, who was standing by, reeling at the resemblance. "Hello," he greeted. "I'm sorry I've inadvertently caused you and your husband so much trouble."

Edith took his hand, looking a bit numb. "You couldn't help it, Lieutenant." She kept staring. "No wonder everyone thought Amory was you. This is so strange."

"It _is_ out of the ordinary," Amory remarked.

Andy sat down next to the bed. "It looks like we both have enemies at large."

Amory nodded, his expression darkening. "I wish I could shed some light on who yours are. I have no idea."

"I'm not sure who yours are, either," Andy admitted, "but I do know what they want, more or less." He reached into his inner coat pocket and removed the letter. "They're hoping you know if there's a code in here that reveals where your business partner hid some incriminating evidence against them."

"Excuse me?!" Amory snatched the paper as Andy offered it. As he began to read, his grip on the edges tightened.

Edith tensed. "What is it, Amory?" she asked.

Amory slumped back in the pillows. "It's from Ned," he said. "It must be; it's in his handwriting. But . . ." He shook his head. "I don't know how to feel about it."

". . . I was told he wrote it right before he was murdered," Andy said carefully. "And that the murderer took it off his body."

"Frank had it?!" Edith rocked back, looking as though she had just taken a blow too.

"My wife's brother," Amory said by way of explanation. "He was the murderer."

Andy's stomach twisted. He could relate all too well, after the agony of wondering if Jimmy could have murdered Ralph Pearce. But at least Jimmy had been exonerated. Andy no longer had to live with the pain that must be following Edith.

"I'm sorry," he said in all sincerity. "And yes, I was told the name 'Frank'. Apparently someone else took it off of him when he left the apartment building. I don't know if he even read it."

"Oh, he read it," Amory grunted. "If he took it, it was because he knew it was incriminating for him."

"Mr. Fallon . . ." Tragg stepped forward. "Did he write a code into the letter, as Andy's abductors believed?"

Amory set the paper down, slowly nodding in response. "Yes," he said. "This paragraph here." He pointed. "It quips about not asking me to be the gallant knight and also mentions checkmating the criminals.

"Ned was passionate about chess. It's strange to think about, really. At least it is for me. I don't tend to think of womanizing gamblers as being chess fans."

"Oh yes," Tragg mused. "I remember. He had quite an expensive chess set in his apartment."

"Not only that, but he had a giant statue of a white knight chess piece," Amory said. "And that is where he hid this information. I'm sure of it!"

**Note: If anyone has access to the uncut version of **_**The Impatient Partner**_**, the chess set and the giant knight statue really do exist!**


	8. Thompkins

**Notes: Sorry about the delay, everyone. I got sidetracked writing about Wesley Lau's character from **_**The Alamo**_**, Emil Sande, over at Livejournal. The story kept flowing, so I kept writing. This chapter has been in progress for a couple of weeks. Also, I'm bringing back Sergeant Nichols again. I created him when I wasn't sure if I had Brice down well enough, and I decided that there was a place for him here, since Brice isn't with Steve and Steve needed someone to talk to.**

**Chapter Eight**

Hamilton had requested to be contacted as soon as there was any news about Andy, even if it meant he would be awakened in the middle of the night. That being the case, when the phone rang after four A.M., he started out of a shallow sleep and grabbed the receiver.

"Hello?"

"Mr. Burger?"

Hamilton perked up at Tragg's voice. He sounded like he was in a good mood. And there was surely only one thing that could cheer him now.

"What is it, Tragg?" he demanded. "Has Andy been found?"

"Yes!" Tragg's smile could be felt over the phone. "And he's alright. He just needs to take it easy for a few days because of his leg having been hurt. But it's nothing serious."

"That's a relief." Hamilton sat up in bed, all thoughts of sleep evaporated. "Where was he?!"

"Well, that's an odd thing. He was with your friend Jefferson Pike."

"What?!"

"Eh, it's a long story," Tragg said. "The police got the news not long ago from Andy himself, and it was passed on to me after an . . . incident. I went there to make sure Andy was alright. I didn't want to wake up you or the others until I was sure the news was on the level and that Andy was alive. I'm sorry if I did wrong, Mr. Burger. The helicopter was leaving right then."

"Oh no, that's alright," Hamilton said. "I was asleep anyway, so I didn't know the difference. But I'm glad you called now. I'll let Perry know."

"I thought you might," Tragg said.

"What's this about an 'incident', though?" Hamilton frowned.

"Just that a couple of hooligans broke into my house right before I got the news," Tragg growled. "They wanted Andy and knew that there had been a mix-up with him and Fallon. They're behind bars now. Maybe once they know Andy is safe and sound we can get them to talk."

"Good luck with that," Hamilton said.

"Thanks," Tragg said wryly. "We'll need it.

"Well, I'll let you go. We're still at the hospital, but we'll hopefully be leaving soon."

"Alright. Thank you, Tragg. I don't want to hold you up, but maybe I'll come down for just a minute to see you and Andy."

"You'd better call Perry first, though," Tragg said. "And then I suppose he'll call Della and Paul. They'll all be wanting to know."

"I know. I'll see you later, Tragg. And I'll want a full account of everything that's happened."

"You'll get it," Tragg assured him.

Hamilton hung up, only pausing for a moment to let the wonderful news sink in. Andy was alive and well and back with them. Yes, Perry and Della and Paul would want to know immediately.

He dialed Perry's number, his hands trembling, his heart gathering speed. This felt like a dream again, but this time, one that was too good to be true. So many times these sorts of cases did not have a happy ending. Andy was very lucky, or blessed, or something, that he had made it through. And he surely knew it better than anyone.

Perry was every bit as relieved and thankful to hear the news. As Hamilton had thought, he endeavored to let Della and Paul know. The outlandish time of night did not make a difference; they, too, would want to be awakened and told.

"Oh, I'm so glad," Della exclaimed, practically in happy tears when Perry called her.

"He must have lives like a cat," was Paul's comment.

"I'm going down to the hospital to see him," Perry said to first one, then the other. "Want to come?"

Della and Paul each confirmed it, although Della wondered if so many descending on Andy would be overwhelming right now.

"We shouldn't keep him long," she said. "He must be ready to drop."

"I agree," Perry said. "We'll just see him for a moment."

After making plans to all meet at the hospital, they went their separate ways.

xxxx

"Amory?"

Amory looked up with a start as Edith spoke. She was studying him, her eyes worried.

"Yes?" he asked. "What is it, Edith?"

"Are you alright?" Edith's gaze traveled to the letter still in her husband's hands. "You haven't said a word since the police left."

Amory exhaled, sharply. "Oh, I don't know." He slapped the letter on his lap. "This is just so much to take in." He regarded his wife in despair. "I've felt so bitter towards Ned ever since I realized he'd betrayed me. And now I'm faced with this!" He waved the letter at her. "If I'm to believe it, he was sorry for what he did to me, to us, to the company. But I don't know that I can forgive him."

Edith gently laid her hand over his. "I don't know what to say," she said. "We both know that it would be better if you could, Amory. But when someone hurt you as deeply as he did, of course it would be hard. And all the ways of trying to convince you to find a way to do it sound so hollow and trite and unfeeling."

Amory nodded. "I don't want to feel this way," he said. "I _want_ to find it in me to forgive him. I know I should in any case, but especially with this. I just don't know if I can."

"Well . . ." Edith squeezed his hand. "Wanting to is an important step. Maybe it will just take some time."

"Maybe," Amory consented.

Edith sat down. "Do you think the police will find that knight statue?"

Amory sighed. "Who knows. If they can track it down by who bought it at the police auction, and if there is a secret compartment, and if the new owners haven't found and opened it . . ." He shrugged. "Then maybe there's a chance."

"You make it sound so complicated," Edith said.

"I know, that's a lot of _ifs_," Amory said. "And there's others. I guess I'm just a cynic."

"You're a practical businessman," Edith said firmly.

"I suppose," said Amory.

"You are. And a good one."

"I'm glad you think so. I don't always feel like it, particularly when I'm the one who made Ned a partner."

"You couldn't have known what would happen." Edith hesitated. "And back then, I think Ned wasn't mixed up in anything crooked. That probably only came later, after he got himself in so much debt."

"Maybe."

After a moment of silence Edith said, "I wonder what Ned got involved in that scared him so badly."

"It could have even been some kind of organized crime." Amory stared down at the letter. "He doesn't really give any indication of it in here. It must all be in that information he hid away in the statue."

Edith nodded. "I guess he didn't want to say in the letter.

"It's so strange about that policeman, isn't it?"

"My non-existent twin?" Amory shook his head. "It's . . . I don't know what to think about it. It's so surreal. It's _un_real. This sort of thing just doesn't happen in real-life. And somehow it's odd that he's a good person, too. In most fiction accounts, the double is a villain. Unless you're reading _The Prince and the Pauper._"

"Well . . . I guess there's you and Lieutenant Anderson being mistaken for each other and kind of getting switched, but it's not much of a _Prince and the Pauper_ parallel." Edith shuddered. "I can't stand to think of you ending up in a horrible place like where Lieutenant Anderson was being held."

"I don't think I could've made it out of there the way he did," Amory said. "Even if I'd tried, one look at those dogs probably would have made me surrender."

"Oh, I don't know." Edith smiled fondly. "Don't sell yourself short, Amory. You're resourceful."

"But not the type to gamble with my life. Lieutenant Anderson's been trained to do that everyday. His mind works in channels I'd never dream of."

"I guess so," Edith consented. "Well . . . Amory, you'd better try to get some more sleep before the doctor comes back. He won't be too happy that you had police visitors again."

Amory sighed, sinking back into the pillows. "I doubt I can sleep any more now. Not after this letter."

Edith took it from him and placed it in her purse. "There'll be plenty of time to think about it later. Please, Amory. Try?"

Amory nodded. "I'll try," he consented. "I just don't expect too much." He closed his eyes and attempted to relax.

Edith leaned back in the chair. She wasn't so sure she would be able to sleep, either. There was so much to take in, and the amount seemed to increase by the hour. Nevertheless, before she quite knew what was happening, she was in a doze.

At her side, Amory remained awake for some time, thinking, turning the words of the letter over and over in his mind until they blended with other echoes of the past. Ned's betrayal. Amory's arrest. Testimonies in court. Frank's confession. By the time he finally worked himself into an exhausted sleep, it was nearly dawn.

xxxx

It was as soon as Tragg and Andy left Amory's room that they were met by Hamilton, Perry, and the rest—relieved and amazed and overjoyed to find Andy alive and well. Lucy and Mrs. Norden, having already reunited with Andy, had been visiting with Jimmy, as well as Perry and company, while waiting in the hall for Amory's room to be vacated.

"Andy," Perry smiled, clapping a hand on Andy's back. "Welcome home."

"It's about time," Paul said.

"Thank God you're safe," Hamilton declared.

"Are you alright?" Della asked, worried as she took in Andy's ragged appearance.

Andy looked to each of them and the others in turn, exhausted and ready to collapse but touched by their coming. "I'm fine," he said, managing a smile. "Thank you. Thank you all."

They went back to the waiting room, but upon finding it too crowded to talk, left the building altogether and stood outside by their cars. Andy stumbled, more from reaching the end of his endurance rather than from his leg.

Hamilton was the closest to him. He reached out, steadying his colleague and friend. "Andy, you need to rest," he exclaimed.

"I know," Andy mumbled.

"Oh, you're probably still not feeling well from the chloroform, either," Lucy fretted.

"I'm _alright,_" Andy emphasized. He opened the door of Tragg's car and sank into the passenger seat. "We need to figure out how to solve this case." He leaned forward, massaging his eyes.

"Nothing more is going to be accomplished with you almost asleep on your feet," Tragg told him sternly. "I'm going to drive you home, Andy. No arguments now."

Mrs. Norden nodded in agreement. "Please, Andy," she begged. "The case will still be here in a few hours. You won't even be able to think how to fix it without sleep."

"I've worked without sleep before, Mama," Andy said.

"And it's bad for you and the case," Tragg grunted.

Andy managed a weak smile. "I only learned from the best."

Tragg rolled his eyes. "Bah!" He walked around to the driver's side of the car.

Andy watched him, not about to argue any further. At this point, he was not sure he would even make it to bed. He had the feeling that the instant they drove off, he would drop off.

Tragg would not be in the least surprised if he did. And he was also not surprised when Andy picked up a thread of conversation with Hamilton even while swinging his legs into the car.

"Oh, Mr. Burger, you mentioned that Sampson was having trouble with a case. What was it again?"

"The Thompkins case," Hamilton said in surprise.

Andy nodded slowly, leaning into the plush seat. "It's strange, isn't it," he said as Jimmy, Mrs. Norden, and Lucy climbed into the back of the car.

Lucy paused and blinked at him. "What's strange?"

"That name _Thompkins_," Andy said. "It's so much like _Thompson._" Half-asleep, he pulled the seatbelt down and snapped it into place.

Hamilton was wide awake. He gawked at Andy, his mouth hanging open.

Tragg was looking too. "You know, Mr. Burger, we were all saying how atrocious the handwriting was," he said. "It's a long-shot, but is there any chance we could have made a mistake and read _Thompkins_ for _Thompson_? As in Ned Thompson, Amory Fallon's business partner?"

Hamilton shook his head and shrugged. "I guess it's possible," he admitted. "We never even thought of it, since we finally deciphered it as _Thompkins._ Sampson has the file and the papers; I'll ask to see them today."

"You do that," Tragg said. "We'll see you later."

Andy nodded. "Goodbye for now. I'm sorry I can't be more accommodating."

"You're fine, Andy," Perry said. "All you need is some good rest. After what you've been through tonight, of course it would be overwhelming to run into so many more people to talk to."

Andy managed a smile. "Thank you for understanding, Perry."

"We all do," Della smiled back.

They stepped back as the car drove away. "Well," Paul mused, "_that's_ going to give them something interesting to work on."

Hamilton looked to Perry. "What do you think, Perry?" he wondered. "Could this unsolved Thompkins case really be mixed up in this mess with Andy and Mr. Fallon?"

"With the group out to get 'Thompkins' as the ones who abducted Andy?" Perry supplied. "Well, without reviewing the case, Hamilton, I don't know what to think. But I'm certainly willing to consider the possibility. It sounds worth looking into."

"I'll have to get our handwriting experts to take another crack at those notes," Hamilton said. "See if they think they actually might say 'Thompson' instead."

Paul sighed. "And if they do, then we'll probably all get involved," he deduced. "And it'll be a very busy day.

"Goodnight, folks. I'm going to _try_ to get some sleep."

"Before Perry wakes you up in two hours to investigate," Hamilton remarked.

"Oh, I was thinking of giving him two and a half," Perry deadpanned.

Paul rolled his eyes Heavenward. "Woe is me."

xxxx

Steve stood at the gate, glaring at the vacated compound in utter annoyance.

He could still hardly believe that everyone had escaped in such a short amount of time. They could not be far away, and yet there was no trace of anyone in any direction, save for the tire tracks leading up the mountain and to the lodge.

"Well, what do you make of this, Sergeant?" he frowned.

Sergeant Nichols shook his head. "I don't know what to make of it, Lieutenant. It's almost like they vanished into thin air."

"Or underground. But we can't find any trapdoors, either." Aggravated, Steve turned away. "There's not so much as one dog hair!"

". . . And there's no hope that the snipers will reveal their comrades' secrets?" Nichols said without hope.

"Very little," Steve replied. "They're still close-lipped about everything, judging from what I was told on the radio just now."

"But Lieutenant Anderson is safe?" Nichols asked. He had already been informed, but he wanted to make sure the news was correct.

"Lieutenant Anderson is fine," Steve nodded. "He was dizzy from the chloroform and he was limping, but it's nothing serious. They had him looked over at the hospital. Lieutenant Tragg just called to let me know.

"And he said Amory Fallon figured out the code in that bizarre note Andy was given. The only problem now is finding the chess knight statue Fallon mentioned. And there's an expensive chessboard, too. Tragg figured we should also look for that."

"So there might be a secret drawer in a chessboard?" Nichols said, incredulous.

"It doesn't sound that much more insane than a secret compartment in a statue," Steve returned. "It's all we've got to go on."

He turned away, heading for the car. "There's nothing more we can do here," he said. "Let's let the lab take over. We'll follow up that lead we started about J.K. Stratton and then check on Andy."

"In that order?" Nichols chased after his superior. "It isn't even light yet!"

Steve checked his watch. "It won't be long now," he said. "By the time we get back to the city, it'll be light."

Nichols sighed. "Unfortunately, you're right. Why did I decide to go into the detective division? It sure wasn't for the hours."

"Maybe you liked the paperwork and the dead-end leads," Steve said wryly.

"Haha." Nichols rolled his eyes. "Maybe I did. Or maybe I was like a lot of other young police officers who thought the detective division would be filled with nothing but excitement and car chases and gunfights."

"Which aren't even that fun when you're right in the middle of them," Steve remarked.

They got into the car, with Nichols in the driver's seat. As he drove away from the bunker, he glanced with curiosity to his companion. "What about you, Lieutenant?"

"Huh?"

"Why did you join the detective division?" Nichols was curious. He and Steve had rarely worked together, but he had heard good things about the young, efficient Lieutenant from Tragg, Andy, and Brice. From all that Nichols had seen, Steve deserved their good words and their faith in him.

Steve leaned back as he pondered his answer. "It probably sounds cliché," he replied at last. "But the simple truth is that I wanted to do my part to keep the streets safe. It's been a well-known fact for years that Los Angeles doesn't have anywhere near enough police officers for the number of civilians. I thought I could do whatever possible to make a difference. Working in Homicide seemed a good choice; many of the most vile criminals are there."

Nichols nodded slowly. "You've done good work, from all I've heard."

"Oh? Whom have you heard it from?"

"Lieutenant Tragg's talked about you."

"Lieutenant Tragg doesn't give out compliments easily."

"It was just one time, when I was first going to be on a case with you. But I could tell from what he said that he was very impressed with your record. And with you."

"I see," Steve mused. "Thank you for telling me, Sergeant."

"Of course, Sir."

It was indeed growing light as they arrived back in downtown Los Angeles. Steve took out his phone and located the address of the Stratton Works building.

"I've heard that Stratton gets to work outrageously early each day," Steve said. "Let's drive over there and see if it's true. If he isn't at work yet, we'll go back to his house in Beverly Hills."

Nichols agreed without protest. It was certainly an odd angle to the case. "No one answered the door when we tried last night," he said.

"It's possible he wasn't home," Steve said. "Or maybe he didn't want to talk to the police."

The building looked completely silent when Nichols pulled over to the curb several moments later. But he and Steve both seemed to have an odd foreboding about the locale as they got out of the car. They exchanged troubled looks.

It was only after drawing closer to the front doors that they caught sight of the fresh red puddles on the concrete. Steve broke into a run, hurrying ahead of Nichols. As he weaved around a square pillar, he nearly stumbled over a limp body. He dropped to his knees, checking for a pulse.

Nichols soon caught up. "Dead?" he asked in concern.

Steve shook his head. "There's a weak pulse. Call an ambulance!"

Nichols fumbled and drew out his phone. "It isn't Stratton, is it?"

"No." Steve was bewildered. "I don't know who it is. But he's wearing a red baseball cap with pins—just as Lieutenant Anderson's missing informant was supposed to."

Nichols nearly dropped the phone while dialing. "Why would _he_ be _here?!_" he cried.

Steve leaned over the body, hoping to quell the bleeding. "I don't know," he said quietly. "I don't know at all."


	9. Cyclone

**Chapter Nine**

Andy had no idea how long he slept that morning, but it was glorious. By the time he finally pulled himself awake, as the clock was reaching the noon hour, he felt refreshed. Throwing back the covers, he eased himself out of bed.

The room was darker than usual for this time of day. He guessed—correctly—that it was overcast.

The weather bothered him very little, especially since he was not out in it. He yawned and ran a hand into his hair, brushing it away from his eyes as he shuffled to the doorway.

Tragg had decided it would be wise to send Andy to a hotel, at least for the night. Someone was staking out Andy's house, just in case any of his new enemies came looking for him. When Andy was feeling better, he would probably lead the stakeout himself, using himself as bait to hopefully draw the bad guys into the open.

Right now, all was quiet in the other part of the suite. Jimmy, who had decided to stay over in case someone unsavory had followed them there, was probably asleep as well.

"Andy?"

Or not.

Andy wandered into the main room. Jimmy was lying on the large white couch, but he was wide awake. At the sound of footsteps, he pulled himself up.

"Have you been awake all this time?" Andy asked.

"Nope. I've been catching sleep off and on." Jimmy looked to him. "What about you?"

"I've been dead to the world." Andy paused, discomfort flitting across his features. "That . . . probably wasn't the best term I could have used."

"No, it wasn't," Jimmy frowned. "But I'm glad to hear you were asleep. You needed it!"

"Yes, I did." Andy came around and sat on the couch with him. "Has there been any news?"

"Some." Jimmy reached for his phone, which he had placed on the end table. "Lieutenant Drumm called earlier and said that he and Sergeant Nichols found a guy collapsed at the Stratton Works building that might be the guy who called you."

"What?!" Andy stared. "What would he have been doing there?"

"That's what they've been asking," Jimmy said. "He was alive when they found him, but just barely. He'd been beat up bad. He's at the hospital, last I heard. They're not sure if he'll make it."

Andy frowned. "What did Mr. Stratton have to say about it?"

"They still can't find him," Jimmy said. "They've been checking the building, his house, a cabin he owns in the canyons . . . nothing."

Andy leaned back with a sigh, his hands drifting to his knees. "So it's more dead-ends. Where is his cabin?"

"Not anywhere near the lodge, if that's what you're wondering," Jimmy said.

"Well, it was a vain hope, anyway." Andy looked to Jimmy. "Are you hungry?"

"Hungry? You're kidding me. I'm not hungry, Andy. I'm starving! I haven't eaten since sometime last night."

"Come to think of it, I'm hungry too," Andy mused. "I haven't eaten since before I was abducted." He reached for the phone. "Let's call room service."

Jimmy grinned. "You're on!"

Soon the food arrived and the cousins laughed and talked, enjoying a few moments of relaxation before they would have to return to the outside world and the bewildering problems waiting for them.

"Hey, Andy," Jimmy said as he buttered a roll, "do you remember when we were kids and we used to play astronauts in the backyard?"

"Do I," Andy said, shaking his head. He had even been conned into mentioning it to Mr. Vann, shortly before Vivalene had used her Forbidden Box to warp all of their memories and their very existence. He was still somewhat surprised that Vivalene hadn't decided to make him think he was an astronaut instead of a school principal.

"We could stay out there all hours of the night," Jimmy chuckled. "And boy, did Mom get frustrated sometimes. But she knew you'd always look out for me if I did something stupid."

"Ah yes. Unless we _both_ did something stupid," Andy came back. "Then we were really in for it."

"_You_ did stupid things, Andy?" Jimmy smirked. "I don't seem to remember that."

"Oh, I did," Andy said. "Like the time I decided we could build a rocket in the backyard big enough for us to ride in . . . and launch it into space!"

Jimmy laughed. "I remember that," he said. "Only something went wrong with whatever we were using for fuel and we launched into the neighbor's yard when the rocket tipped over the fence."

"Then we had to contend with her as well as our parents," Andy said, shaking his head. "I can't believe I did that."

"I can't believe you did, either," Jimmy said. "I wonder what Lieutenant Tragg would say if he knew."

"Lieutenant Tragg would say he was glad I gained some better sense by now," Andy said. "But off to the side he'd ask me if I'd figured out how to perfect the fuel system."

Jimmy laughed. "Lieutenant Tragg is a character," he said.

He quickly sobered. "He was really worried about you last night, Andy. I was, too."

Andy grew serious as well. "I know," he said. "And I'm sorry for worrying you. I wonder how things would have gone last night if there hadn't been any mix-ups."

Jimmy frowned. "Well . . . you might be dead," he said. "We don't know who's out to get you or why. If they'd really got you instead of Mr. Fallon . . ."

Andy sighed. "None of it even makes sense," he said. "It seems clear now that there are three factions we're dealing with—my enemies, Mr. Fallon's enemies, and whoever deliberately took our identification to further confuse the issue."

Jimmy pondered on the problem. "I guess there's no chance that whoever took yours and Mr. Fallon's I.D. was trying to make sure you'd both live through the mess, if they figured you'd both die if there _wasn't_ a mix-up."

"Not likely," Andy said, shaking his head. "I would have been killed if Mr. Fallon's enemies had learned and believed my true identity even a little bit sooner."

"Yeah." Jimmy looked down. "You're lucky Mr. Pike was going down that road and found you."

"I found him, rather, but yes, I agree." Andy leaned back into the couch with a sigh. "I'd better call in and see what's been happening since you last knew."

"Probably not much, if anything," Jimmy told him. "Lieutenant Drumm said he'd call when he knew something more."

"Probably not, then," Andy agreed. "But we'd better finish up here and get in to work."

"Actually, Andy, don't you remember that Lieutenant Tragg told you to stay home today and recuperate?" Jimmy leaned on the couch with one elbow. "Of course, you were asleep long before you got into bed. I'm surprised you even remembered I stayed over."

"Now, you're exaggerating," Andy said. "I was perfectly awake until the instant I met my pillow."

"Yeah—in the car." Jimmy peered at him. "Do you remember stopping at your place to get some of your stuff? What about getting to the hotel? Getting out of your suit? Lieutenant Tragg telling you goodnight?"

Andy paused. He had vague memories of all of those things, but he felt extremely distant and detached from them, as though he had dreamt them.

"Alright, you win," he conceded. "I wasn't really awake. But did I walk inside the hotel under my own power, at least? That's one thing I really don't remember at all."

"Sleep-walked," Jimmy grinned.

"And the desk clerk probably thought I'd had a little too much to drink, didn't he," Andy grunted.

"Oh, you looked normal enough," Jimmy said. "But you wandered up the stairs in a complete fog."

Andy closed his eyes. "Just you wait and something unholy about me will show up in today's papers."

"Well . . ."

Andy's eyes snapped open. "There _was_ something, wasn't there?"

Jimmy shook his head. "Not like you're thinking, Andy. There's just an article about you and Mr. Fallon both recovering. And it doesn't mention the mix-up at all. Lieutenant Tragg thought it would be better if the crooks didn't know that we know about it, since the last they knew was that we thought Mr. Fallon was you."

"I see." Andy sat up straight. "Mr. Fallon was hoping to get out of the hospital today," he mused. "Will he be allowed to leave?"

"I think so," Jimmy said. "But he and his wife will probably end up in a hotel for a while, too. Just to be on the safe side."

"Hopefully not this one," Andy frowned. "The last thing any of us need is more mass confusion."

"You're telling me," Jimmy said. "But I don't have to go on duty until tonight. And you're off altogether. What do you want to do?"

"It's hard to think much about doing anything not related to the case," Andy admitted. "I want to see it get solved, and soon."

Jimmy nodded. "You and me both. Well . . ." He gave Andy a mischievous smile.

Andy returned the look with a pointed stare. "What?"

Jimmy stretched his arm across the top of the couch. "We could always work on perfecting the plans for that rocket."

xxxx

Edith regarded her husband with worried eyes as she drove them to the hotel the police had recommended. Amory had only been out of the hospital for less than thirty minutes, and already he was being pestered with company news.

Having lost his cellphone he had borrowed hers, feeling that he needed to find out if all was well at the company. Before he had even had the chance to use it, his secretary had called Edith's phone, panicked after not getting an answer from either Amory's phone or the home phone. Apparently something had gone wrong at the company overnight. And from what Edith could hear of Amory's side of the conversation, it chilled her.

"_What_ was written on my office door?! . . . You called the police, didn't you?! . . . Well, _did_ you?!

". . . Yes, yes, yes. Look, Miss Ames, I'm sorry for snapping at you, but this hasn't been an easy night for me, either. . . . You know the story in the news about a police lieutenant being mugged in Griffith Park? That was me. . . . Yes, I know. . . . Yes. This lieutenant and I look exactly alike. And he may come around either today or later, just so you know to be prepared."

Amory paused, looking frustrated as Vivian Ames picked up her end of the conversation. But when his expression changed to concern, Edith grew more worried than ever. What _else_ had gone wrong?

"You told the police about this, too, didn't you? . . . Miss Ames, for goodness sake! My employees deserve every possible protection. You should have told the police you were threatened too." Another, uncomfortable pause. "Miss Ames? Miss Ames, it isn't like you to be so hysterical. Is there something else, something you still haven't told me?"

Edith tried to resist the urge to pull to the side of the road and just wait. She had to get them to the hotel as soon as possible. But on the other hand, if something was so terribly wrong, Amory might want to talk with their police escorts about going to the company building instead. He would never be able to sit still in a hotel room thinking about something amiss at the company.

Fallon Paints was his life's work. He had built it up from nothing and made it successful. And it was because of him that it had withstood all the damage it had taken through the years, from Ned and others. He was not about to let something go wrong now.

"_WHAT?!"_

Edith jumped a mile.

"That's it. That is just _it!_ They've got a lot of gall to pull something like that! And they're going to regret it.

". . . No, I won't do anything rash! I'm sorry you had to be the one to find that, Miss Ames. It won't happen again. I'll make sure it won't!

". . . Yes. Yes, I'll see if I can arrange to inspect the damage now. We have a police escort. I'll be there in a few minutes, if possible. . . . Yes. Goodbye, Miss Ames."

Edith started pulling over as Amory hung up. "Amory, what's wrong?" she cried. "It sounds bad."

"It is." Amory replaced the phone in Edith's purse and looked back to make sure the squad car was pulling over with them. He was seething. "Someone broke into the company building last night. Miss Ames just found the damage when she got in this morning."

"What's the trouble?" Officer Malloy called as he and Officer Reed exited the car and came up to Edith's.

Amory explained again, and this time went on to fill in the disturbing details. "Miss Ames said that she found blood-red spray paint on my office door. Aside from several unrepeatable phrases, the gist of it was that next time they'd use real blood to paint the glass, if I don't give them the information they want. And they were very clear that it would be either my blood . . . or yours, Edith."

Edith's eyes went wide. "Oh no," she gasped. "Oh Amory!"

Of course, she was not worried about herself, save for how her being harmed would affect Amory. She did not even want to think about that.

"They also left a message on Miss Ames' door, threatening her if she doesn't find a way to make me cooperate." Amory was bitterly furious. "And possibly worst of all, when Miss Ames found all of that, she saw what looked like a body slumped over in my chair. She thought it was me. Instead it was a cloth dummy they fixed up to look like me. They put fake blood all over it and pinned it to my chair with a sword through its chest."

Reed looked ill. "Has she called the police?"

"Yes, but she didn't mention on the phone that she was threatened too." Amory sighed. "She said they're on their way now.

"Officers, I want to go there and see the damage. It's my company; I've worked for years to make it what it is! And now, for something like this to happen . . . !" Amory clenched a fist.

"I'm not sure it would be a good idea for you to go out there, Mr. Fallon," Malloy said. "At least not until the police are through checking it over."

"That could be hours!" Amory retorted. "I won't get anything constructive done by twiddling my thumbs at the hotel."

"And you won't get anything constructive done at your company, either. Not until the lab boys have gone over everything." Malloy sighed. "So how about we just go on to the hotel like we planned?"

Edith laid a hand on Amory's arm. "Officer Malloy is right, Amory," she said. "Please, let's just go. What if someone is watching the building and they'll hurt you or follow us if they see you?"

"That's possible, Mr. Fallon," said Reed. "Then they might be led right to where you're staying."

"And that wouldn't be good for you or your wife," Malloy put in.

"But . . ." Amory's shoulders slumped as his rage faded, replaced by conflict and confusion. He certainly did not want to put Edith in danger. Nor was he thrilled at the thought of endangering himself again, either.

". . . What about Miss Ames?" he said at last. "She was threatened too."

"She'll get police protection," Malloy assured him.

Amory sighed, slumping into the seat. ". . . Alright," he conceded, albeit still reluctant. "I won't go there, at least not right now."

Edith relaxed. Malloy and Reed looked pleased.

"I'm sure that's the best decision, Mr. Fallon," Reed told him.

"Maybe so. I can't say I'm happy with it, but if it will keep Edith safe . . ." Amory ran a hand into his hair, sending it into his eyes.

Edith watched him in concern. "Everything will be alright, Amory," she said, as much to convince herself as him. "For both of us. If we just do as the police say, we'll have a much better chance."

"We'd better. But Edith, I don't even _have_ any information for them!" Amory cried. "And I thought they had finally realized that it was Lieutenant Anderson they had and not me!"

"Maybe they know Lieutenant Anderson told you about the letter," Edith worried. "They surely suspect it, at least."

"Oh, I'm sure they do," Amory muttered. "They already act like they know just about everything about this mess, except what they really _want_ to know."

Edith began to pull away from the curb. "And we don't even know what that is," she said sadly. "Except that Ned was collecting it against them."

"Even all these years after Ned's death, he still manages to come back and haunt me," Amory growled. "I thought I'd cleaned up all of his catastrophes. But he had one more stored up, just waiting to spring it on me along with everything else!"

". . . Ned did a lot of horrible things to you, Amory," Edith said softly. "But in all fairness to him, it didn't sound like he did any of them to deliberately hurt you."

"Well, he hurt me anyway," Amory snarled. "And he knew enough to realize he'd hurt me. He didn't care, Edith. That was the whole problem right there. _He didn't __**care!**_"

He shook his head, suddenly overcome by weariness and sorrow. ". . . You know, if he'd come to me and told me about his money problems, I would have tried to help him. We could have worked something out. Maybe then he never would've got mixed up in any of this. Maybe then he'd still be alive."

"We both know he never would have bothered you about his problems, Amory. He was too proud."

"_Yes,_ he was too proud. And that's a problem bothering a great majority of the people today." Amory passed a hand over his face. "I'm not going to say that I'm immune to it, either. It's just . . . oh, I don't know, Edith. I don't know what to think about any of this.

"I'm still furious with Ned over everything he did. It doesn't help that we've got entangled in another of his prize disasters now. But . . . underneath it all, under all the hurt and anger and pain . . . I miss him.

"Oh, not the Ned who gambled and embezzled and turned our lives upsidedown. The Ned I brought in as a company partner. The Ned I trusted, if he ever deserved that trust. The Ned who was my—our—friend."

Edith nodded. "I know, Amory. I miss him too. And I don't know what happened to him somewhere along the way, but . . ." She hesitated. "I don't think that Ned ever died completely. His letter proves that. He remembered that he was your friend before he . . . before he was killed."

"And he conveniently dropped more trouble in my lap."

"You were the only one he trusted."

Amory gave a short laugh. "Odd, isn't it? I couldn't trust him anymore, and he knew that. But he still thought I would help him if I got hold of that information he hid."

"I don't think he thought it as much as maybe having hoped it," Edith said. "He even said he didn't expect you to want to help him or to catch those people. He thought he might be dead by the time you got his letter. He just wanted you to get the information to the police so they could take care of it."

"And he led his enemies right to me."

". . . I think they would've come after you even without knowing about the letter," Edith said quietly. "It wouldn't have taken them long to decide that you would probably know more about Ned's activities than most. It's just that . . . well, actually, Amory, by sending that information to you, Ned gave you more of a fighting chance. If we just had it, we could put those people in jail."

"If, if. That's the keyword right there." Amory shook his head. "Thanks to your brother, and the police auction, that information could be in Switzerland by now!" But he looked stricken before the words were even fully out of his mouth. "I'm sorry, Edith. I didn't mean to drag Frank into it."

Edith sighed. "I'm afraid Frank already dragged himself into it," she said. "He killed Ned and stole that letter. Oh, if there was a way to turn back time and stop him . . ."

"If you could turn back time that much, why not turn it back enough so that Ned never betrayed me at all?" Amory muttered. "Then Frank wouldn't have been dragged into things, either."

Edith fell silent. It was such a tangled web. One tragedy had led to another in a cycle that never seemed to slow down or stop. And Amory was right that it was still affecting them now, six years later. What was there to say or do? They were caught up in this situation without really knowing how to begin to get out of it.

xxxx

"Lily Stratton?"

The teenage girl nodded as she leaned on the doorframe with one arm. "Yeah? What is it?"

Steve held up his badge. "Lieutenant Drumm, LAPD. This is Sergeant Nichols." He nodded to the other man. "We've been here several times since last night, but no one's been home."

"I was at a sleepover," Lily shrugged. "I just got home. What's the beef, Lieutenant?"

Steve said, "I need to talk with you about your father."

Lily pushed herself away from the wood. "Why? What's he done?" She crossed her arms, scrutinizing her visitor.

"I don't know that he's done anything," Steve admitted. "But we can't find him. He had an appointment to meet with Amory Fallon last night, at the Griffith Observatory. Do you know anything about that?"

Lily considered the question, her brow furrowing as she concentrated. "I know he said he needed to talk with some man after dropping me off," she said. "But they never met. He came and found me a few minutes later and said that Mr. Fallon couldn't make it after all and he needed to leave. He asked if I could get a ride home with someone else and I said Yes."

"How did he act when he came to tell you about Mr. Fallon?" Steve queried.

"Kind of funny," Lily remembered. "Jumpy and nervous-like.

"Hey, we shouldn't be standing out here like this. Come in, you guys." She backed away, allowing Steve and Nichols to step into the parlor.

"Thank you," Steve said, slightly amused at her casual choice of words. He shut the door behind him. "Did you ask him about it?"

"About being jumpy and nervous? Yeah." Lily led the detectives to the living room and plopped down in a chair. Steve sat on the edge of the couch, while Nichols took up the spot beside him. "He just said that it wasn't anything for me to worry about."

"Did you believe him?"

"I just figured it was company stuff."

Steve nodded and made a note. "Miss Stratton, did you see anyone with him or near him? Perhaps a man wearing a red baseball cap?"

Lily's eyes flickered with confusion. "No," she said slowly. "I don't think so."

"You're sure now. Do you remember seeing a man like that at all?"

"There were a lot of people with hats, Lieutenant," Lily said.

"This one had pins all over it," Steve elaborated.

Now Lily perked up. "Hey, maybe I did see him," she declared. "Yeah, I think I bumped into him by the front doors. He was really jumpy too. He flew a mile. I think he thought I'd be someone else."

"Oh? Who?"

"I have no idea, Lieutenant. Really." Lily frowned. "He said something, though, something kind of weird. There were a lot of people talking all around us, but it sounded like he yelled 'No, I didn't say anything, I promise'. Then, when he saw who I was, he said he was sorry and to just forget what he'd said. He acted embarrassed and still jumpy. He walked away from me and looked around some more, like he was waiting for someone."

"And did someone come?"

"Maybe. I wouldn't know. I just shrugged it off and went inside then. I didn't see him again." Lily leaned forward, peering at him. "What is this, Lieutenant? Who is that guy? And what does he have to do with my father?"

"Possibly nothing," Steve said. "We're not sure who he is yet, but we found him lying half-dead in front of your father's company building. He looked like he'd tried to drag himself to the front doors before collapsing."

Now Lily was staring in disbelief. "No," she gasped. "That's crazy. It was probably just a weird coincidence. My father doesn't know anyone like that."

"That remains to be seen, Miss Stratton. But do you know why your father never came home last night?"

"Like I said, I thought it was company business, a last-minute trip or something," Lily said. She looked from Steve to Nichols. "He does that sometimes, running off on a dime."

A piercing scream from upstairs cut off any further conversation. All three people leaped to their feet, shocked.

"What was that?!" Nichols exclaimed.

"The maid," Lily told him. She ran to the bottom of the stairs. "Janie, what's wrong?!" she demanded, gripping the banister.

A plump woman appeared from a bedroom on the second floor. Her chalk-white skin stood out in stark contrast to her short black curls.

"It's Mr. Stratton's bedroom!" she cried. "I went in to tidy up and it's a terrible mess! It looks like a hurricane ripped through!"

"Or someone looking for something?" Steve asked with a frown.

"Yes!" Janie said, without even inquiring as to why two strange men were in the house. "Oh, this is terrible! _Terrible!_" She wrung her hands in distress.

Steve came closer and started up the stairs, holding out his badge. "Miss, we're from the police department," he announced. "Can you tell if anything's missing?"

Janie only briefly glanced at the badge before shaking her head and turning away to look back into the room. "No," she said slowly. "I won't be able to tell until everything's put aright again. Except . . ." She frowned. "That's strange."

"What is?" Steve reached the top of the stairs, Nichols and Lily right behind him. They gathered around the open doorway, peering into the cyclone zone.

"The only things untouched are the things on top of Mr. Stratton's desk," Janie said. "They're all in place except for some old pictures and letters he was looking at last night."

"What kind of pictures and letters?" Steve stepped over a fallen multi-level circular table and around the papers, scattered like snow all over the floor.

"Oh . . . it was a bunch of old stuff about one of Mr. Stratton's friends," Janie said slowly. "Ned, I think."

Steve and Nichols whipped around to stare at her. "Ned?!" Steve exclaimed.

"Yes!" Janie nodded. "Ned Thompson. That was it. Why?" She blinked at them. "Does that name mean anything to you?"

Steve and Nichols exchanged a look. "Yes," Steve replied. "Yes, it does."


	10. Letter-Opener

**Notes: As usual, oops, I got sidetracked by some other projects. About the time I stopped updating was when I started writing my Halloween story **_**The Case of the Man-Eating House.**_** But now it's done and up, and hopefully I'll be able to fully get back to this story. I have every intention of finishing it!**

**Chapter Ten**

Gregory Sampson berated himself as he dashed madly about his house, gathering papers and buttoning buttons and brushing teeth. He had stayed up so late last night, worrying about Mr. Burger and Lieutenant Anderson, that he had managed to oversleep. Now he would barely have time to make it to court before the trial started. And being late was something he just was not, especially for court.

When the telephone rang, he almost threw up his hands in despair and ignored it. But, worrying that it might be important, he hastened into his study and grabbed the receiver. "Hello?!"

"Oh, good, I caught you," came Mr. Burger's relieved voice. "Sampson, I know you must be in a rush, but I need something from you today."

"Of course," Sampson answered immediately. Now he was glad that he had chosen to pick up the phone. In his mind, Mr. Burger rarely asked anything of him. He wanted to help in any way he possibly could. "What is it, Mr. Burger?"

"Will you please bring in all the files and information you have on the Thompkins case?" Hamilton asked. "A new idea came to my attention last night and I'd like to check up on it while you're in court. It might be the break we've been wanting."

"I'll bring everything," Sampson assured him. "And I already have an investigator looking into the possibility that Harvey Harlen is still alive."

"Good," Hamilton said. "Oh, don't forget the handwritten notes, please. I want a new handwriting expert to go over them."

"Why, Sir?" Sampson queried in surprise.

"Well, there's a chance we may have been misreading the name. I want to be sure." Mr. Burger paused. "I'll let you go, Sampson. Please bring the files to my office when you get here."

"Yes, Mr. Burger. Of course. Goodbye, Sir." Sampson hung up and hurried to collect the desired papers. He had brought them with him the night before, intending to study them further himself. He would have, if not for oversleeping this morning.

Without warning, something cold and hard pressed against the back of his head. He went rigid.

"That's it, Mr. Sampson. Don't move." The voice was unfamiliar, but Sampson knew all too well what the succeeding _click_ meant. "Now, I want the file on the Thompkins case. Hand it over or you'll die."

Anger instead of fear boiled in the zealous prosecutor's heart. "What good will it do you?" he countered. "There are other copies."

"Some things can't be copied. The file, Mr. Sampson." The gun pressed more insistently.

"It's on the desk," Sampson retorted bitterly. "Why have me hand it to you?"

A gloved hand reached out, snatching the folder. "Is everything in it?"

"Everything," Sampson told his assailant. "But taking it is an admission that you or someone you're working for is afraid of what's in it."

"Save your preaching." The hand rifled the folder. "Something's missing. What did you do with it?!"

"What?!" Sampson whirled to look, in spite of the gun. "No; everything is there! I was reading through it just yesterday!"

"You're a liar. What did you do with the rest?!"

Sampson could almost sense the finger beginning to squeeze the trigger. "I tell you, nothing is missing!" he protested. "You're mistaken."

"No, Mr. Sampson." The voice was stone hard. "You are."

Sampson's eyes narrowed. He was not about to accept this from anyone, especially a stranger who had broken into his house. He moved his fingers slightly towards the desk, gathering up his letter-opener. Without warning he jabbed it backwards, right into the other man's side. The yelp and the gun jerking away from Sampson's head said that it had been a most unplanned surprise.

Sampson whirled to face the man, but could see nothing for the mask covering his face. He struck out anyway, punching the intruder and sending him flying backwards. In the next minute Sampson was straddling him, fighting for control of the gun. He hissed in pain as a bullet clipped his upper arm, but undaunted, he wrenched the man's arm into the air.

The letter-opener plunging into his body was as much of a surprise to him as it had been to his burglar. He gasped in pain, falling back as he clawed at the weapon, trying to pull it out of his flesh.

His attacker sneered at him and reached down, grasping hold of the handle. Sampson stared at him, bewildered and on edge. Trembling, he laid his unsteady hands on the other's man glove, but could not stop him from driving the blade in further and then suddenly ripping it out. Sampson wheezed and choked, falling back. While he was still gasping and breathing heavily, stunned from the new wound, he was hit violently over the head with the gun. He collapsed to the floor, motionless.

The intruder struck him once, then twice before straightening and stabbing the letter-opener into the desk. He stood over the body, glowering at what was left of the spunky man who had dared to fight back. His lip twisted in his annoyance at the delay to his searching. Now he had to worry about the wound he himself had received, as well. And he had no time for that.

He delivered a cruel kick to Sampson's abdomen before stepping over the lifeless form and beginning to go through the desk.

xxxx

Deputy Bill Vincent glanced at his watch, which he had been doing every few seconds for the past twenty minutes. "I don't understand this," he said to Sergeant Brice, who was seated at the prosecutor's table near him. "Mr. Sampson is never late. If anything, he's early."

Brice shook his head. It was definitely strange. And in light of the wild night they had all come through, he had to wonder if it meant anything. Sampson _had_ been working on a case that Lieutenant Tragg now thought might tie in with it all.

The judge entered the courtroom and everyone rose. Vincent ran his tongue over his lips, nervous. "Your Honor?" he called.

Judge Penner looked to him with a raised eyebrow. "Yes, Mr. Vincent? Where is Mr. Sampson?"

"That's what I don't know, Sir," Vincent admitted. "May I request a short recess to try to get in touch with him? I know he fully intended to be here."

Judge Penner considered the request and slowly nodded. "So ordered. Court is recessed for thirty minutes. But, Mr. Vincent, if Mr. Sampson can't be located, are you ready to take over for him?"

"Yes, Your Honor," Vincent said. "And thank you."

Immediately he ran into the hall to try again to call Sampson's house. As before, the phone continued to ring in his ear without success. He slammed the receiver down in baffled frustration before hurrying to find Mr. Burger.

xxxx

Hamilton was already aware of Sampson's apparent disappearance, having been trying to call him for the past hour. And Hamilton was nearly fed up with this new oddity. Sampson going missing was not something he needed or knew how to deal with right now. He had barely slept, as he knew was also the case with Sergeant Brice, who was in the courtroom to testify.

He rubbed at his eyes in exhaustion. How Perry could manage on so little sleep almost all the time was beyond him.

His muscles aching, he got up from his desk and headed into the corridor. And he nearly plowed into Bill Vincent when the kid came barreling down the hall towards his office.

"Mr. Burger!" Vincent yelped.

Hamilton reached out to steady both himself and his young deputy. "Bill, Sampson was supposed to bring some important files to me when he got into court," he said by way of greeting. "Did he tell you . . ."

"He didn't tell me anything, Mr. Burger!" Vincent retorted. "He just didn't show up in court. If he doesn't get here in twenty minutes, I'll need to take over for him."

Hamilton nodded, his mind occupied. "Yes, I know. I'm going out to his house right now. You hold down the fort here." He rushed ahead to the elevator and soon was on his way to the ground floor.

Sampson and Vincent were a strange combination, it was true. But Hamilton had hoped that by working with someone even more impulsive and eager than himself, Sampson would take on more responsibility, and that in turn it would help Bill Vincent likewise.

He barely thought of it now. When the doors opened he hastened out, heading for the parking garage.

Sampson would never shirk his duty. For him to fail to arrive, something must have gone horribly wrong. And Hamilton hated to think what it might be.

xxxx

Deputy Victor Chamberlin frowned as he pulled up in front of Sampson's house. Having heard that Sampson had gone missing, and having some time to spare, Chamberlin had come here looking for his friend and comrade. Now, as he sat staring at the half-open front door, he was increasingly sure something was wrong. And he did not want to go plunging into something without letting his location be known.

Taking out his phone, he dialed Mr. Burger's number.

It was answered almost immediately. "Hello?"

"Mr. Burger?"

Still walking to his car, Hamilton frowned and slowed his pace. "Chamberlin?" he said in surprise. "What is it?"

"I heard Sampson didn't make it in yet," Chamberlin explained. "I had some spare time, so I drove out to his house. His car is still in the driveway, but Mr. Burger, the front door to the house is unlocked!"

Hamilton nearly dropped the phone. "What?!"

"I'm going in now to see what's happening." Chamberlin eased himself out of the car and walked slowly and cautiously up to the porch. His eyes widened as he pushed the door open further. There was blood all over it.

The tornado inside the house was another shock. That was certainly not Sampson's doing. He was meticulously organized. Chamberlin wandered through the living room and down the hall, stepping over furniture and scattered papers. It would take hours to clean all of this up. Sampson would be in a tizzy.

"I don't know what happened here, Mr. Burger, but I think someone broke in. Everything's a mess and . . ." Chamberlin came to the study and stood stock still at the sight in there. Particularly the body on the floor near the desk. "Gregory?!"

"Chamberlin?!" Hamilton's fears were fully awakened by now. "What is it? Is Sampson there?"

Chamberlin barely processed the question. He was rushing to the other man's side, collapsing on his knees next to him. Blood was everywhere. And Sampson showed no sign of moving or otherwise reacting to Chamberlin's presence.

Chamberlin had never seen him like this—so still, so quiet. He was always moving, blustering, determined to battle all the evil in the county limits. Now, some of the evil had apparently given battle to him. And won.

"Dear Lord, no. Gregory?!" Chamberlin was in a clear panic. Hamilton had never heard his calm, self-assured deputy sound so dismayed. And Chamberlin doubted he had ever before felt so dismayed.

"Victor, answer me. Please!" Hamilton all but demanded. "What's going on?"

"Mr. Burger, please." Chamberlin's voice was strained as he struggled to check for a pulse. "Send for an ambulance. Yes, Sampson's here. Or maybe just his body. Mr. Burger, I'm not sure if he's even still alive!"

xxxx

By the time Steve and Sergeant Nichols arrived at the home of Gregory Sampson, Steve's nerves were badly stretched. One look at Hamilton told him that the district attorney felt exactly the same.

"What happened here?" Steve asked as he walked over, notepad and pencil in hand. In the distance, an ambulance siren was wailing.

Hamilton shook his head. "Right now, no one's sure. Chamberlin found the front door unlocked, went inside, and discovered Sampson lying on the floor." He clenched a fist. "Among other things, someone gave him a pretty bad knock on the head."

Steve gripped the pencil. "Just like Mr. Fallon?"

"It looks that way," Hamilton nodded. "Only we think it's worse. And what's worse than _that _is that he was wounded a couple of times, too—once by a gun and once by something else. Probably the letter-opener someone stuck in his desk."

Worry flickered in Steve's eyes. "Is he . . . alive?"

"Yes," Hamilton said, but he was still tense. "Maybe he'll be able to tell us something about who attacked him when he comes to. _If_ he comes to."

Steve looked down. "It's that bad?"

"It might be," Hamilton said. "Between the blows on his head and all the blood he's lost. Chamberlin is still in there with him. I came out looking for the ambulance."

He tried to manage a slight smile. "I don't think all the blood in there is Sampson's, though. He must have wounded his attacker. There were bloodstained handprints on one of the windows and on the front door. And Sampson certainly didn't get that far. I was talking to him right before it probably happened."

Steve smirked a bit, but it seemed forced. "Sampson would fight tooth and nail against a criminal, any criminal. Then again, who wouldn't, if they were being attacked?"

He looked towards the house. "Mr. Fallon was mugged, Lieutenant Anderson was abducted, Stratton's disappeared, and Andy's informant is nearly dead. And now Mr. Sampson was _also _mugged?"

"Yes. And he's also only barely alive," Hamilton sighed. "But he _is _alive, for now. That's the only good thing in this new disaster."

Steve nodded. "We have to find out what's happening before someone else gets hurt. Or _worse._" The fury and bitterness in his gruff voice were easily heard.

"I know," Hamilton said. He was so weary, so overwhelmed. "But I don't know how."

"There's supposed to be a possible lead on Thompson's chess knight statue," Steve said. "Maybe that will come through."

"Or _fall_ through, with our luck," Hamilton remarked.

He looked towards the house. "I just don't understand what the intruder was looking for," he said quietly. "Everything in the house is turned upsidedown."

"And I guess you don't know if anything's missing," Steve said, his tone grim.

"No, I don't. Neither does Victor." Hamilton ran a hand over his face. "The last eighteen hours have been an absolute nightmare. I guess there's no news on Andy's informant?"

"Not on his medical condition," Steve said. "But we think we might have IDed him. Someone in the hospital claims she remembers him being in there before, beaten black-and-blue. She's going through the hospital records now."

"Let me know as soon as you find out," Hamilton said.

Steve nodded. "Even if he can't talk, maybe someone he knows can tell us something."

The ambulance pulled up at the house, lights flashing. Hamilton hurried past Steve to meet the paramedics as they got out. "He's in the house," he directed. "Come on."

Steve watched as the two young men followed Hamilton inside. He trailed after them, Nichols right on his heels.

"What do you think, Lieutenant?" Nichols asked.

"About what? Sampson?" Steve stopped at the doorway to the study and waited, not wanting to get in the paramedics' way. Chamberlin had managed to slow the bleeding and was now backing up as well. He looked dazed. On the floor, Sampson was deathly pale.

Steve shook his head. "I don't know what to think, about Sampson or anything else in this case."

"Is this really connected with everything else, though?" Nichols wondered.

"Who can say," Steve said.

"Maybe Sampson could," Nichols remarked.

Steve turned away. "Yeah." His voice had thickened. "Maybe he could. I just hope he gets the chance."

Nichols laid a hand on Steve's shoulder.

xxxx

Andy blinked in surprise when there was a knock on his hotel room door. And when Jimmy got up and opened it, they were both surprised to see Amory Fallon standing there.

Jimmy shook his head, still stunned and amazed by the resemblance. "Hello, Mr. Fallon," he said. "Come in. I see you're out of the hospital."

"Yes," Amory nodded, stepping into the room. "And Edith and I came here to take out a room for a couple of days. When the desk clerk called me 'Lieutenant', I realized we'd blundered into the exact same hotel as my double." He gave Andy a Look.

Andy eased himself off the couch, favoring his uninjured leg. "I'm sorry about that," he said. "You're staying here anyway?"

"Oh, yes, yes. That wouldn't stop us." Amory looked Andy up and down. "You're looking better than you were early this morning."

"I feel a lot better," Andy nodded. "And you?"

Amory's eyes flickered. "Physically, I'm fine."

"But emotionally, you're not?" Andy surmised.

Amory started to pace the room. "Lieutenant, someone broke into my company building and left several outrageous messages. I'm angry. I want to go there, but the police don't think it's safe."

"I'm sure they're right," Andy frowned. "But what kinds of messages did they leave?"

Jimmy sighed. "Andy, you're supposed to be resting," he scolded.

Andy waved a hand in his direction. "No, no. I'm alright."

Amory stopped pacing and looked to him. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have come up. Just . . . well, knowing that you're interested in the case too, I thought maybe you'd be more understanding of my position. I should have realized you'd be a police officer, first and foremost."

"Nevermind that," Andy returned. "Tell me about what happened at your building."

Amory ran a hand into his hair. "The intruders left obscene messages on both my door and my secretary's, threatening our lives and Edith's too. And they even fixed up a dummy to look like me, slumped at my desk with a sword through my heart!" He threw his hands in the air.

"And I'm sure they mean business, judging from what they've already done," Andy said. "I'm sorry, Mr. Fallon."

Amory let out a frustrated sigh. "They're sure I know information about Ned that I'm not telling them. And if we can't find out who they are and get them caught, who knows what they'll try next?!"

Andy leaned back, pondering for a moment. "Lieutenant Drumm has been investigating this J.K. Stratton, hasn't he?" he said at last.

"That's right," Amory nodded. "But he's gone missing! And his daughter has no idea where he is!"

Jimmy came over to them. "Lieutenant Drumm called not too long ago and said Mr. Stratton knew Ned Thompson," he said. "His daughter said they were friends. Do you ever remember Mr. Thompson mentioning a Mr. Stratton or a J.K.?"

"No, I don't," Amory frowned. "But it was common knowledge that Ned was my business partner. Why didn't Stratton mention it?"

"Perhaps because of how Mr. Thompson betrayed you?" Andy suggested. "Maybe he didn't want to stir up painful feelings."

"Maybe," Amory said slowly. "But it still seems strange that he wouldn't so much as say that he and Ned had been friends."

"Suppose he is mixed up in this mess," Andy said. "What would he have to gain from it?"

"I've been asking myself that question ever since the police indicated he was a suspect," Amory said. "I can't imagine, unless he's part of that criminal organization Ned got involved with."

"Lieutenant Drumm said Stratton's daughter told him that Stratton was nervous and upset when he came to get her at the Observatory," Jimmy put in. "Maybe he isn't deeply involved and didn't like the thought of you being hurt, Mr. Fallon."

"Or maybe he's even an innocent party that they're using or blackmailing somehow," Andy mused. "He could have been abducted."

"Or he could have run away, but would he have left his daughter behind?" Amory wondered. "They might take her, thinking she knew where he went!"

Andy started to get up. "We should really do some research on Stratton," he said. "Do you have your laptop?"

"Edith brought it, yes," Amory nodded. "I told her to try to get some rest in our room. She barely closed her eyes all night."

"Andy!" Jimmy exclaimed. "Why not let me do the research? You and Mr. Fallon both need to rest!"

"Oh, I'll go out of my mind if I don't try to figure something out about this mess," Andy said, shaking his head. "And I'm sure Mr. Fallon feels the same, if not moreso. We'll just stay here, Jimmy. The last thing I want to do is put anyone in danger."

"That's the last thing I want, too," Amory said. "Otherwise I would be at my company building right now. I don't like danger, to myself or others.

"I'll bring my laptop down here, so we won't disturb Edith."

"Fine," Andy nodded. "You do that. Oh, and Mr. Fallon. Do you have a file on Stratton, as a prospective client?"

"I don't think so," Amory told him. "We just started negotiations recently."

"Alright." Andy relaxed into the couch. "I'll see you in a few minutes."

Amory nodded and departed. Jimmy frowned after him.

"Andy, what do you think you and Mr. Fallon can really do from here?" he asked.

"Maybe nothing," Andy sighed. "I don't know, Jimmy. I just want to try. This case is important to me, considering how deeply I'm involved in it."

"I understand." Jimmy sighed as well. "It's important to me, too. I want to know who'd have the gall to knock out Mr. Fallon and take you prisoner."

"Then we're agreed," Andy smiled. "It'll be alright, Jimmy. Nothing will happen to us from here."

"Yeah," Jimmy agreed slowly. "I guess you're right."

xxxx

The ringing of Edith's cellphone was what drew her out of a shallow sleep. Still blinking in exhaustion, she fumbled and reached for the device in her purse. "Hello?" she mumbled.

"Mrs. Fallon?"

The unfamiliar voice still could not rouse her from her stupor. "Yes. What is it?" She lay back on the bed as she closed her eyes. Vaguely she wondered why someone was going to so much trouble to contact her.

"Are you familiar with the deputy district attorney Gregory Sampson?"

Edith resisted the urge to moan. "No," she managed instead.

"He's dead."

That finally shook her more fully to consciousness. "What?"

"He's dead because he wouldn't cooperate. He even hid information from my man. And don't think the same thing won't happen to your husband if he does the same. My man drove a letter-opener into Mr. Sampson's heart. Your husband will get worse."

Edith barely even heard the sharp click in her ear. She sat up straight, the phone slipping from her hand as the color drained from her face.

"Edith?"

She only heard Amory's voice from far-off. At the moment, she could not process it.

"Edith, what's wrong?! Edith!"

Amory was right in front of her now, gripping her shoulders, regarding her in fear and alarm.

Slowly, shakily, she raised her eyes to look up at him. Good, kind Amory, who only wanted to live in peace and never seemed to be allowed to. . . .

What would she do without him? What would she do if the time came that she could no longer feel his hands on her shoulders? When he would lie silent and cold in a casket instead of slumbering next to her, alive and warm? When she would have only a lonely grave and her years of memories, and not Amory himself?

And when it would not happen naturally, after many years together, but soon, and because of cold-blooded murder?

The dam broke. She fell forward, sobbing as she clutched at her bewildered and worried husband. "Amory," she choked out. "Oh, Amory!"

Amory held her close, stunned by her sudden outburst. "Edith, what happened?" he demanded. "Tell me, please!"

But for the moment she could only shake her head and hug him close to her. She had already come close to losing him on this case. Too close.

And she could never let it happen for real.


	11. Cabin

**Chapter Eleven**

The afternoon paper ran the story on the front page.

_Assistant District Attorney Murdered By Unknown Intruder_

Della was troubled as she brought the newspaper in to set on Perry's desk. He looked up from the phone, instantly noticing her unsettled demeanor. "Della, what is it?"

Della shook her head and handed him the paper. "I think you'd better call Hamilton," she said.

Perry opened his mouth to question why, but then caught sight of the headline. He stiffened. The telephone forgotten, he replaced the receiver and concentrated on reading the front-page story. At last he leaned back, letting the paper fall to his desk.

"Sampson dead," he whispered in disbelief.

"Killed right in his house," Della said. "The paramedics said he was dead when they got there." She turned away, walking towards the balcony doors. "Mr. Burger must be so upset."

Perry grabbed the phone again, but once more set it aside. "I think I'll go right to Hamilton's office," he said. "Hamilton values all of his deputies. To lose one of them, and like this . . ." He shook his head.

"And Sampson was investigating that Thompkins case," Della remarked. "Oh, Perry, do you think that had something to do with it?"

"Worse than that, I'm still wondering if it has something to do with Andy's problems," Perry frowned. "When's my next appointment?"

Della glanced at her watch. "Not for another hour."

"Good. I'll be back by then." Perry headed out the door, leaving Della gazing after him.

At last, heaving a sad sigh, Della walked out too, returning to her own office.

xxxx

Andy sighed and leaned back, rubbing at his eyes. He and Amory had been researching J.K. Stratton for over an hour, but nothing of use had popped out at either of them. By now Andy was growing restless, as he often did when he had to sit and do paperwork.

That was one aspect of police work that he, as well as many others, hated. He liked to be out in the field—investigating, asking questions, putting the pieces together to form a complete picture. But deskwork was important too, like it or not. And he had to put up with it.

The door opened and Jimmy stepped in, a folder in hand. His sobered expression left Andy stunned.

"Jimmy, what happened?" he gasped.

Jimmy drew a shaking breath. "Lieutenant Tragg asked me to tell you," he said. "He hadn't wanted you to know yet because he hoped you could just relax today, but he figured that just in case it meant your safety, you needed to know.

"Mr. Sampson was attacked and killed, maybe over the . . . the Thompkins case."

Both Andy and Amory looked down. "We already know, Jimmy," Andy said quietly. "Someone called Mrs. Fallon after you'd gone out and told her. Whoever it was threatened Amory's life at the same time."

Amory nodded, sadly. "It took me a long time to get Edith calmed down," he said. "I don't know how, but I finally convinced her to take a sleeping pill. And to turn her phone off. She should be resting peacefully now." He glanced at the door. "I should check on her before too much longer."

Jimmy shut the door, walking seriously over to the couch. "Andy, if whoever did it finds out where you're staying, and Mr. Fallon too . . ." He trailed off, looking away. It did not really need to be said.

"We'll be careful, Jimmy," Andy tried to assure him. He stared into the distance. "Poor Sampson. I should really call Mr. Burger. I tried earlier, but he wasn't in."

"Yeah." Jimmy looked down at the folder still in his hand. "Maybe you should look at this first before you try again."

"Is that the information from the police auction?" Andy queried.

"That's right," Jimmy confirmed. "Lieutenant Tragg and Sergeant Brice have been going over it and over it without any luck. But you said you wanted to try it too, Andy, so here it is." He handed his cousin the folder.

"Thanks." Andy flipped it open, still shaken from the news of Sampson's death. "But I thought Lieutenant Drumm said that there was a lead on that blasted statue."

Jimmy sighed. "Well, there was, until the guy listed as buying it was tracked down and found to be dead. And his housekeeper can't remember where the statue went after that. It's not still in the house."

"So it's a dead-end," Andy said in disgust.

Jimmy nodded. "But he didn't buy the chess set." He pointed at the list. "That guy hasn't been located at all."

Andy stared at the unfamiliar name. "Kenyon Samuel Jaspers," he read.

Amory just shook his head from where he was typing into the computer. "Aside from having the same capital letters in his name as J.K. Stratton, nothing about that name stands out to me."

Andy looked up at Jimmy with a start. "Have the police . . ."

"Yeah. Yeah, they've thought that there was a chance it could be him." Jimmy crossed his arms on the back of the couch. "But since he's missing, they can't ask him. And his daughter doesn't know."

Andy frowned at the list. "He certainly could have bought it without her knowledge."

"Lieutenant Drumm and Sergeant Nichols asked her or the maid to call if they found anything else missing," Jimmy said. "Maybe the maid will remember the chess set and either find it or realize it's gone."

"Maybe," Andy agreed noncommittally.

Amory, meanwhile, abruptly went rigid. "Look at this!" he cried.

Andy and Jimmy leaned over, trying to peer at the screen. "What is it?" Andy asked.

Amory turned the laptop so they could better see. "It's some random article about an estate sale in Switzerland. Some big-shot businessman who died of a heart attack. Only it's not so random at all."

"'Among those in attendance was Joseph Karnes Stratton, of the American-based company Stratton, Inc.,'" Andy read in amazement.

"What was he doing there?" Jimmy wondered. He leaned farther over the couch, craning his neck.

"Buying some of the art pieces, apparently," Amory said. "And according to another guest there, he said he was going to put them in a cabin he owns in the Alps. Just suppose for a moment that he really is the man who bought that chess set. Maybe it's stored there too!"

"It's certainly worth looking into," Andy declared. He grabbed for his phone. "I'll call Lieutenant Tragg right away. Maybe he can explain the whole problem to the Swiss police and get their cooperation. Stratton himself might be up there, if he's hiding out. This is the first time I've ever heard of him owning a cabin in the Alps."

Jimmy straightened, enthused and hopeful now. "I'll help too," he said. "I'll call the airport and ask if there were any tickets bought under the name of the guy who purchased the chess set."

"Good idea," Andy said, already dialing Tragg's number.

"And I'll do a Google search on that name," Amory volunteered.

At last there were other leads. Perhaps they would also fail, but at least now there was more to try.

And if they could solve this case, and even tie in the Thompkins case with it, Sampson would not have died in vain.

xxxx

Leon was sobered and saddened as Perry arrived in the outer office. He looked up, somehow seeing Perry amid all the hair slipping into his eyes. "Oh, Mr. Mason." He pointed with a pencil at the inner office. "Mr. Burger thought you might come."

"He did?" Perry took a step towards the door. "Should I just go in then?"

Leon nodded. "Yes, Sir. He'll be glad to see you."

Perry walked over and quietly knocked before pushing open the door. Hamilton, wearily sitting at his desk, looked up. Something flickered through his eyes at the sight of Perry.

"Oh, Perry," he greeted. "Come in. And shut the door, please." He stood, coming around the desk and extending a hand to shake. "I guess you saw the news."

"Yes." Perry gripped Hamilton's hand. "I'm very sorry, Hamilton."

Hamilton nodded. "So am I. The only thing I'm relieved about is . . ." He trailed off. "Nevermind. Perry, would you mind taking a ride with me?"

"Not at all," Perry said in surprise. "But where are we going?"

"You'll see." Hamilton walked past Perry to the door, grabbing his hat and coat on the way. Perplexed, Perry followed.

Leon watched as they re-entered the outer office. "Are you going out, Sir?"

"Just for a little while, Leon," Hamilton said. "You'll mind the office, won't you?"

"Of course, Sir." Leon sat with his hands poised over his keyboard. "Take all the time you need."

Hamilton nodded. "Thank you, Leon."

xxxx

Hamilton led Perry to the elevators and down to the parking garage without so much as a word. Perry did not question him, knowing that he must have a good reason for this unusual procedure. It was the sort of thing Perry himself had done when he wanted to demonstrate something to Hamilton and did not want to speak of it beforehand.

Once they were in Hamilton's white car and Hamilton was pulling out of the parking lot, Perry looked to his friend. "Alright, Hamilton. Can you tell me now what this is all about?"

Hamilton kept his eyes on the road. "What the papers didn't say is that Sampson wounded his assailant."

Perry blinked. "Do you have him in custody?"

"We didn't at first," Hamilton said. "But when Lieutenant Drumm ordered a sweep of the neighborhood, we found the man collapsed several blocks from Sampson's house. He was clutching his right side." Hamilton managed a weak smirk. "Sampson really gave it to him, alright. Probably with that same blasted letter-opener."

"Is the man alive?" Perry asked.

"Yes," Hamilton nodded. "We have him at the hospital right now, under lock and key. He isn't conscious, but we're hoping he'll wake up soon and will be willing to answer some questions."

"If he is Sampson's murderer, isn't he likely to receive the death penalty?" Perry watched the streets go by in the oncoming autumn afternoon. "Under the law, a prosecutor killed because of trying to do his duty warrants first-degree murder for the culprit."

"That's right." Hamilton gripped the steering wheel a bit tighter. "This man has nothing to lose. We're not even sure he'll pull through, so either way he'll die. And unless he decides to be uncooperative and vengeful, he should be willing to tell us what we want to know."

"Unless he decides to be uncooperative and vengeful," Perry said. "Which he might."

Hamilton sighed. "Yes, he might."

He pulled in at the back of Central Receiving Hospital and parked near the doors. "Are you coming, Perry?" he queried as he eased himself out of the car.

Perry exited as well. "What are we doing here, Hamilton? Trying to illicit a deathbed confession?"

Hamilton did not answer. He headed inside the building, his coat billowing behind him. Confused now, Perry followed him in.

Hamilton paused in the waiting room, speaking with a policeman in lowered tones. The officer pointed, directing him down a corridor to the left. With a "Thank you," Hamilton started in that direction, Perry close behind.

Two more officers were waiting down the hall. Hamilton spoke with them as well and then passed between them into a hospital room. He held the door open for Perry, who stepped in and then stopped short in utter shock.

It wasn't a vicious and merciless killer lying in the hospital bed. It was a weakened and pale man in his thirties. A familiar man.

Visible surprise registered on Perry's face. "Sampson?" he said in disbelief.

Hamilton nodded. "He's alive, Perry, but just barely. He could still die."

"And you want to make sure no one comes to try again," Perry surmised.

"Yes. He needs every possible chance." Hamilton exhaled, deeply. "So we fed that story to the newspapers that he was dead."

"I understand," Perry nodded. "The secret is safe with me, Hamilton."

"I know." Hamilton laid a hand on Perry's shoulder. "Let's leave him alone. He needs complete quiet."

Perry nodded. "Of course."

Only now did he notice that there was yet another officer present, this one right in the room, waiting in the corner. Hamilton was, indeed, not taking any chances with his deputy's life.

Hamilton walked out of the room, Perry right with him. As they headed back up the hallway, Hamilton was clearly troubled.

"I must have talked with him just a few minutes before it happened," he said. "I asked him to bring me the files for the Thompkins case when he came in today. He was probably getting them together when he was confronted."

Perry nodded slowly, sadly, understanding. "I'm sorry, Hamilton. I know how I'd feel if I were in your position."

Hamilton glanced to him. "That's right. You've had some cases like that too, haven't you."

"Yes. It's never easy, knowing that someone's been hurt after you saw or heard them last. But Hamilton, it certainly wasn't your fault."

"I know that, Perry. But still, I . . . I wonder what would've happened if I'd called a few minutes earlier. Or later. What if I'd called after that creep broke in and was standing there? Maybe it would've scared him off." Hamilton rubbed his forehead. "Maybe Sampson wouldn't be lying in there, _dying,_ if I'd . . ."

Perry gripped Hamilton's shoulder. "Hamilton. Don't do this to yourself."

Hamilton stiffened and ground to a halt as he looked over at his friend. Perry was dead serious. And the look in his eyes said loud and clear that he was worried.

Hamilton exhaled, sharply. "I'm trying not to," he said. "But I just feel that somehow, I've let Sampson down. Perry, suddenly people in my office keep being hurt. Leon was attacked several months ago by Helen Watkins. And now this with Sampson. . . ." He shook his head. "I don't know what to do, Perry. I don't know how to keep these people safe."

Perry's grip tightened. "I'd say you're doing a good job with Sampson right now. Hamilton, there's always risks involved in positions like these. You know that."

"Of course I do, Perry," Hamilton retorted. "But knowing it isn't the same thing as being able to keep from feeling horrible about it."

"If you were that unfeeling, people like Leon and Sampson wouldn't even be as loyal to you as they are," Perry said. "They respect you and look up to you because they know you're a kind and compassionate person."

Hamilton considered that and slowly nodded. "I know," he said at last. "And I wouldn't want to be anything else. It's just that sometimes it . . . it doesn't feel like it's enough."

He turned to look at the corridor as he resumed his pace. "Victor Chamberlin was the one who found Sampson, lying there on the floor in all that blood. . . ."

". . . They're friends, aren't they?"

Hamilton gave a sad nod in response to Perry. "Chamberlin took a shine to Sampson when he first joined the office. Sampson's always been, well . . . you know, _zealous._ People in the office joke that _Don Quixote_ is his favorite book. It probably is, but anyway. . . . Chamberlin sort of took Sampson under his wing and they bonded."

Perry quietly nodded. "How is he taking this?"

"He's completely shaken," Hamilton replied. "And I think what I hate the most about this mess, after the fact that Sampson is hurt at all, of course, is that I had to lie to Victor about it."

"He thinks Sampson is dead too?" Perry deduced.

"Yes." Hamilton stopped once they reached the back exit and looked to Perry. "I had to do it, Perry; if we're being watched at all, Chamberlin certainly would be. And if he shows any indication that he knows Sampson is really alive . . ."

"I'm sure he'll understand, when you explain it to him later." Perry's tone was firm and kind at the same time. "It was to protect Sampson."

"I hope he'll understand," Hamilton said. "But what I worry most is that there won't be a need to explain anything. If Sampson dies, there won't be much point revealing the deception."

He passed through the doorway, trudging back to his car. Frowning in concern, Perry followed.

He had never known Sampson that well, and their encounters in court had usually been at least somewhat tense. Sampson was young and over-confident, which had led to some rocky situations with witnesses. But he was a good prosecutor, and Perry had seen him mature over the years. Someday, Perry hoped, Bill Vincent would do the same.

Right now, however, he said a silent prayer for Gregory Sampson's recovery.

Della would want to pray for him too, if she knew he was still alive. But of course Perry could not tell her. Hamilton had taken him into his confidence. Perry could not and would not do anything to jeopardize that—or Sampson's chances for life.

What he _would_ do was throw all possible effort into finding who had sent the assassin.

And find out how, if at all, this was connected with Andy and Amory's problems.

xxxx

Steve collapsed into the chair in his office. Every muscle in his body, it seemed, was screaming for deliverance. And he wanted to oblige. He was absolutely exhausted. Not having had any sleep the night before, he longed to doze off anywhere, even at the desk. But he had the sinking feeling that he was too tired to sleep.

It had been such a never-ending day, filled with twists and turns and especially blood. Between Andy's informant and Sampson, it felt like blood had been everywhere today. Some days in the Homicide division were like that.

Steve hated it.

A piece of paper on the desk caught Steve's eye. He perked up as much as he could, leaning forward to read it.

_Come see me when you get back._

_Tragg_

"Well, that's ominous," he muttered to the empty room. And the curt message indicated it was very important. He started to push himself out of his chair.

At the same moment, the phone rang. He sat back, grabbing up the receiver. "Lieutenant Drumm," he barked.

"Oh, Lieutenant! Good, I'm glad I caught you."

Steve blinked in surprise as he recognized Lily's voice. "What's going on, Miss Stratton?"

"Well, I went poking around the garage to see if I could find that weird chess board you were talking about. And guess what!" Lily rushed on, much to Steve's relief. "I found something even kookier. It looks like a gigantic chess piece!"

Steve went rigid. "In your _garage?_" he exclaimed. "Which chess piece does it look like?"

"The horse guy," Lily told him. "Wow, it's big. And cool! I wonder why he kept it out here."

"Miss Stratton, this is very important," Steve said. "Can you tell if there's some sort of secret compartment anywhere in it?"

"Are you psychic, Lieutenant? It's tipped over, like someone knocked it over in a hurry, and there's a door open in the bottom of the stand." There was a shuffling sound. "I don't see anything in it, though."

"Don't touch anything," Steve barked. "Please. I'll be out there immediately with a fingerprint crew."

"Sure," Lily chirped. "But gee, Lieutenant, tell me, what's so important about this horse statue?"

"I can't explain right now," Steve replied. "Just . . . please, don't let anyone know you found it. Alright?"

"Not even the maid?"

"No one."

Lily fell silent. When she spoke again, there was a tremor of fear in her voice. "Lieutenant? Do you . . . do you think this has anything to do with where my dad is?"

"It might," Steve admitted.

". . . Do you think he's still okay?"

Steve could not help the chill that came with her plaintive words. "I don't know," he said sadly. "I can only hope so."

He hung up moments later, his weariness forgotten. He headed for the door, still in his trenchcoat.

He still needed to see Tragg. But first he would tell Sergeant Brice to go on ahead and take the fingerprint crew with him.

Why did Stratton have the knight? Who had gotten to the information? Whoever had ransacked Stratton's office? Another enemy? Could Stratton himself have discovered and taken it before taking flight? Why?

There were so many possibilities. And somehow Steve was afraid that there was very little time to sort through them all.

Everything was rushing to a head, much too fast.

Of course, that meant the criminals were as desperate as the police. Which could be an advantage.

On the other hand, it could be a disaster.

It all depended on who got and kept the upper hand first.


	12. Brendon

**Notes: Thank you for wanting to share your poignant story with me, my anonymous fellow Wesley fan. And you so inspired me with your love of this story that I managed to get all of this chapter written in the time since I saw your review.**

**Chapter Twelve**

Steve frowned and leaned back in the chair in front of Tragg's desk. The story that was unraveling was both confusing and hopeful.

The Swiss police had been contacted and had agreed to help. They were trying to obtain a search warrant for Stratton's cabin now, and with any luck, that would pan out with the discovery of the missing chessboard. That would also prove that Stratton had been using the alias listed on the police auction records.

Sergeant Brice had just called in to report that the statue was covered in the fingerprints of police officers—most likely from the auction—as well as Ned Thompson's and Stratton's. There were other prints on it as well, but those could not be identified.

Steve sighed in frustration. "So we still don't know if there was anything in the compartment in the statue, whether it would be relevant to the case, or who might have taken it." He looked to Tragg. "It could have been Stratton, if he went on the run. Or it could have been whoever ransacked the house."

Tragg nodded, clasping his hands on his desk. "Oh, there was one other bit of news," he said. "The man you found in front of Stratton's building has regained consciousness. I just got the call before you came in."

Steve perked up. "Did he say anything?"

"Not yet; he was still coming around. And he said he'd only talk to the police. The doctor said you can go down there and see if you can get him to say something sensible."

"Then I'll do that," Steve said. "Do they think he'll live?"

"They think he has a chance, at least."

Steve gave a thoughtful nod. "How's Andy?"

"Antsy," Tragg said, shaking his head. "That's why he and Fallon were looking stuff up on the Internet. He wants to get back to work."

"I wonder where he gets that from."

Tragg shot the thoughtfully amused Steve a Look. But then he chuckled, dropping the façade. "We're all just a bunch of dyed-in-the-wool cops. We can't so much as take a vacation without thinking about cases within a couple of days."

"Or less," Steve remarked.

He stood. "Well, I'd better get down to the hospital before that doctor changes his mind about letting me talk to his patient."

"You do that," Tragg nodded. "I'll wait to hear from the Swiss police. Although maybe the chessboard isn't that important now. It would be odd, if it had a secret compartment too."

"I don't think there's anything about this case that _isn't_ odd," Steve said. "We don't even know how Stratton ended up with that knight. We can prove he wasn't the man who bought it originally."

"Probably," Tragg mused. "Unless the fellow who keeled over bought it for Stratton in the first place."

Steve blinked. "Should I have Nichols look into the possibility that they knew each other?"

"Eh. Couldn't hurt."

"I guess you're right." Steve gave a wry smile. "Just about anything could be the answer at this point."

Tragg nodded, also with a wry smile. "But only one thing actually is. We just have to find out what."

"And that's the problem," Steve sighed.

"Oh yes," Tragg said sagely. "That's definitely the problem."

xxxx

Amory typed his username and password into his email account and pressed Enter. He and Andy and Jimmy might be here for a long time, waiting to hear news from the Swiss police or from Steve or Tragg. And he might as well be getting something else done if he could. He couldn't get into the office, but working at all would be a good thing.

Most of the emails were business-related, he noted, just as they should be. But one other stood out, with a subject line of _From a Friend_ and an unfamiliar sender_._ It had come not that long ago.

He frowned. He used a different address for personal email. Something about this message and how out of place it was made his stomach turn. He clicked with a heavy heart.

_Your wife is pretty, Mr. Fallon. You better hope she stays that way._

_I know where you are._

There was also an attached photograph. And when he clicked on the preview of that, up came an exterior shot of the hotel they were in.

The color drained from his face.

"Mr. Fallon?" Andy was perplexed. "Is something wrong?"

"_Wrong?!"_ Amory echoed in his distress. "I'll say there's something wrong. This . . . this piece of stalker hate mail is what's wrong!" He pointed at the screen.

Andy leaned over, taking it in within an instant. "They probably got a temporary email just to send this and then deleted the account," he said in disgust. "But I'll have a squad start investigating right now."

Amory ran his hands through his hair. "I have to get back to Edith," he declared. "She could be in danger right now!" He frowned. "And you might be too, Lieutenant. They probably also know _you're_ here!"

"I have little doubt of that," Andy admitted. "But you shouldn't go to your wife alone. I'll come with you." He stood, getting out his phone to call the police. "I'll call on the way."

Jimmy came over from the kitchenette, a sandwich in hand. "What's going on?" he demanded. "Andy, you shouldn't be getting up!"

Andy looked to him. "I have to. It's trouble," he announced. "The Fallons aren't safe here. We probably aren't, either."

"What?!" Jimmy looked to Amory's laptop and stiffened. "Holy Toledo!"

Amory was already rushing to the door, not stopping to wait for the cousins. Andy chased after him as fast as he dared, trying not to put undue pressure on his injured leg. And Jimmy was right on his heels, after shoving the sandwich into the small fridge.

"Hello?!" Andy exclaimed into the phone as he half-hobbled down the hall. "Lieutenant?"

"Andy, what on Earth . . ." Tragg sounded both gruff and worried. "What's happening there?!"

"Lieutenant, please send some of your men as backup right away," Andy pleaded. "Mr. Fallon's wife may be hurt. All of us are in danger; Mr. Fallon received a threatening email with a picture of the hotel. They know where we are!"

"_WHAT?!"_ Tragg was furious now, at both the criminals and himself. Somewhere there had either been a slip-up . . . or a leak. "There's other police in the building, near both your room and Mr. Fallon's. I thought all of them had been checked out and were on the level. Now I don't know if one of them might be mixed up in this. I'll lead a squad in there myself. And Andy . . ."

He hesitated. He could not ask Andy to sit and wait for their arrival. Edith might be dead by then. And Tragg doubted Amory would wait, anyway.

He drew a shaking breath. "Andy, be careful," he begged. The fear in his voice was agonizingly audible.

"I will be, Lieutenant," Andy assured him. "As much as I can be. But please . . . hurry."

"I'm leaving right now," Tragg declared.

Andy ended the call and slipped the phone back in his pocket. Amory was quickly working himself into a panic. And Andy could not blame him in the least. This was a horrifying situation. There was no telling what they might find when they burst through that door.

xxxx

Brendon Mileson turned just slightly as Steve entered his hospital room, regarding the detective with bleary eyes. "You're the Lieutenant?" he mumbled.

"That's right," Steve said, taking out his badge. "Lieutenant Drumm. Sergeant Nichols and I found you collapsed outside the Stratton company building. I'd like to ask you a few questions."

"Sure, go ahead." Brendon looked to the wall now, his eyes glazed and unfocused. There was a sense of resignation about him. Perhaps in the past he would have refused to answer. Now, he seemingly did not care.

"Did you call Lieutenant Anderson last night and tell him you had information about the Graveyard Murder?"

"Yeah, I did."

"And what was this information?"

That was another angle the police had been turning inside-out, hoping for some connection to what had happened in the park. So far, they had found nothing. And the Graveyard Murder was still just as much of a puzzle as ever.

Brendon toyed with the bedcovers. "Mr. Stratton witnessed the murder."

Steve froze. "What?!" He stared at the kid. "What was J.K. Stratton doing there in the first place?"

"I don't know that," Brendon admitted. "I was just taking a walk through the cemetery that night when I saw Stratton and two other guys. I saw that one of them had a gun, so I freaked out and hid behind a big headstone. I didn't want any of them to know I'd seen them."

"Of course. Could you hear what they were saying?"

"Not much," Brendon said. "The guy with the gun thought that the third guy had taken a bunch of information about him and some organization of his. He asked Stratton about it and Stratton stuttered and stammered and finally said the guy had."

"And what did the third man say?"

"He denied it, man. The stuff was supposed to be in some trippy chess knight statue, and he swore up and down he didn't have it."

"Why did the gunman think he did?" Steve frowned.

"He said Stratton had told him the guy had been skulking around his garage, looking for stuff to steal. So then the third guy said Yeah, sure, he'd done that. And he'd even found the horse statue. But he insisted he hadn't taken anything out of it. Heck, he hadn't even known the thing opened up!" Brendon's eyes flickered and he clutched the blanket. "That's when they got into a fight over the gun. The third guy was panicky by then and grabbed it, hoping to get it away or something, I guess. And the second guy just shot him dead and Stratton yelped."

Steve's frown deepened. "Could you see anything of what this man looked like? You saw enough to recognize Stratton."

"Well . . . that's just because I know him," Brendon said. "I work in his company. It was more I recognized his voice than anything else. It was really dark."

"Alright." Steve sighed. "What happened then?"

"Stratton burst out, 'Why did you do that?' And the murderer said, 'He might've gone and blabbed to the cops.' Stratton said, 'So you believed him and you just killed him in cold blood!' And the murderer said, 'You're next if you don't keep quiet. But I know you will, won't you?'"

"Do you know what he meant?"

"Uh uh. But Stratton did. He went all stiff-like and stared at the guy's body and finally mumbled, 'Yes.' And then they left. I waited until I was sure they were gone before I left too." Brendon twisted the edge of the blanket.

"I was too scared to come forward; I thought maybe they'd seen me after all. But it kept bugging me until finally I picked up the phone and called Lieutenant Anderson. I remembered he was the one they put on the case. So I set up the whole deal at Griffith Park. I thought there'd be lots of people around and I'd be safe."

Steve's hand flew over his notepad. "But something went wrong?" he prompted.

"Oh boy, did it. When I got there, I saw Stratton. I couldn't believe it! I thought sure he knew and that he'd tracked me down, maybe even that the murderer guy was there with him.

"Well, I freaked. I went tearing out of there as fast as I could. And as I ran through the trees, I saw Lieutenant Anderson get held up by someone."

"Could you tell who?"

"No, I didn't know this guy. But when he cracked Lieutenant Anderson over the head and he fell down, I was really sure the jig was up. I thought he'd killed the Lieutenant and he'd be after me next.

"I waited until he'd left, and then I went over to Lieutenant Anderson. I figured I had to find out whether he was really dead or not, since I'd got him into the mess. And then I saw his wedding ring and I didn't remember he was married. So I got out his I.D. and saw that it wasn't Lieutenant Anderson at all, but some guy named Amory Fallon."

Steve looked up with a start. "Did _you_ remove Fallon's identification?!" he exclaimed.

Brendon would not meet his piercing gaze. "Yeah, I did. I heard someone else coming, so I just took off with the I.D. I knew my fingerprints were all over it, and I was afraid I'd be accused of killing him. I'm sorry."

"What about his wedding ring?" Steve prompted. "Did you take that, too?"

"Yeah. Same reason. I touched it when I saw him wearing it." Brendon clenched a fist. "It was all so stupid. I wanted to get away, but I still wanted to find the real Lieutenant Anderson and warn him. I knew they'd be after him if they saw him walking around."

"Did you ever find him?"

"I saw him get chloroformed," Brendon said. "Then I heard the guy saying something on the phone about getting Amory Fallon. By then I was really mixed up! It seemed like someone had really wanted him too, and I didn't get it. I'd thought Lieutenant Anderson was the only target between the two of them."

Steve paused in his writing. "You didn't, by any chance, take Lieutenant Anderson's identification too, did you?"

Brendon flushed. "Well, they were talking about taking him away to question him about something and I started wondering what would happen when they realized they had a police officer instead of Mr. Fallon. I felt awful for getting Lieutenant Anderson out to the park; I figured what was happening to him was all my fault for not coming forward in the first place. So I threw a rock and got the guy to leave, thinking someone was spying on him. Then I sneaked out and took Lieutenant Anderson's I.D. and his badge. I was going to give him Mr. Fallon's stuff, but I didn't have time. The guy came back and I had to run for it."

Steve rocked back, shaking his head. "This is one of the most convoluted stories I've heard in a while," he declared. "And if you were really feeling so terrible about inadvertently walking Lieutenant Anderson into a trap meant for his double, why didn't you immediately call the police about him being abducted?"

"I started to!" Brendon insisted. "But I was right all along about someone having seen me in the cemetery that night. The same guy who hit Mr. Fallon came after me when I found a phone. That's how I got . . . like this." He looked at his bandaged arm.

"He thought he'd killed me and I just made like I was dead, hoping he'd keep thinking it and go away." Brendon shook his head. "And I passed out about then, so it wasn't hard. I don't even remember walking to Mr. Stratton's place. I wonder if they dumped me there on purpose, as a warning to him. He was really scared of that guy in the cemetery."

"Maybe so then," Steve said noncommittally.

Brendon looked up at him. "Can you pick Mr. Stratton up and ask him?" he asked hopefully. "About the cemetery and everything?"

Steve heaved a deep sigh. "I wish we could," he said. "Mr. Stratton has disappeared."

"Oh man." Brendon leaned back against the pillow, tightly shutting his eyes. "And Lieutenant Anderson and Amory Fallon. What about them?"

"They're both alright, thank God." Steve fixed the kid with a look of mixed emotions. "As off-the-wall as your actions were, by taking Lieutenant Anderson's identification you really might have saved his life. Or at least prolonged it enough that he was able to save himself."

Brendon opened his eyes. "Then I did good," he breathed in relief.

"Well, I can't deny that this whole thing might have been prevented if you'd come forward in the first place, and that taking his I.D. could have backfired and caused worse trouble. He's just lucky it didn't." Steve moved to close the notepad. "Is that everything?"

"Yeah," Brendon nodded. "Oh. Except, I hid the I.D. cards and the ring in a bush in the park. If I got caught, I didn't want them found on me."

Steve nodded too. "I'll see that they're found. Do you remember where in the park?"

"As far away from the hill as possible," Brendon said. "That's probably why the police haven't found them yet."

"Probably," Steve agreed.

"Does what I told you help any?" Brendon wanted to know. "About catching the killer and stuff, I mean."

"I don't know," Steve admitted. "If we could find Stratton, it might help a lot more."

Brendon sighed. "I hope you can. And that he'll still be alive to talk."

"So do I," Steve said. "Thank you for your cooperation."

"Any time, Lieutenant. I know better now." Brendon finally met his gaze. "If I witness any more murders, I'll go to the police first thing."

"Good," Steve said. "Now, you just rest and get better. Someone will let you know when everything is wrapped up. And I imagine Lieutenant Anderson will want to talk with you himself."

"Oh. Yeah." Guilt flickered in Brendon's eyes. "I hope he won't be mad."

"I'm sure he'll mostly be grateful," Steve said. "Lieutenant Anderson's a reasonable man."

He shook his head as he left the room moments later. Brendon Mileson's story was absolutely bizarre. But, cynical though he was, Steve found that he believed it. Insanity aside, it _did_ fit the facts as they were known.

Andy would want to know about it immediately. Amory, too. Steve would check in with Tragg and then maybe go on to the hotel to tell them in person.

He took out his phone, regarding it in surprise when the screen informed him he had a voice message from Tragg's number. And it had been sent not long ago.

Steve walked down the hall as he listened. His eyes narrowed and his pace slowed. Then he picked up speed, hurrying to the door as fast as he dared.

Nevermind stopping at the station. He had to get to that hotel immediately.

xxxx

Amory knew something would be wrong when he grasped the knob of his and Edith's hotel room and found it already unlocked. As he opened the door, the sight of his wife being held captive by a man with a gun to her head stopped him cold. "Edith!" he burst out.

She looked to him with wide and frantic eyes. "No, Amory!" she wailed. "Go back, please! They really want you, not me!"

The gun pressed harder against her temple. "The problem is, Mrs. Fallon, the best way to get at your husband is through you." The intruder looked to Amory with a wretched, twisted sneer. "You know what we're after, Fallon. Well? How about it? Will you be handing it over?"

"I _can't!_" Amory screamed. "What's the matter with you? Why are you so convinced that _I _have it?!"

"Because that's what Mr. Stratton told my boss."

Amory stood stock still in disbelief, even as Andy and Jimmy ran in behind him. "Mr. Stratton was lying!" Amory burst out. "I don't have this blasted information. I wish I did! Then maybe you'd be behind bars instead of threatening my wife!"

The man's eyes flickered in honest surprise to see the cousins. "What's going on here?" he demanded. "Is this a convention?" He gaped as he took a closer look at Andy. "What are you, his brother?"

"I'm Lieutenant Anderson, L.A.P.D.," Andy snapped. "And you're under arrest."

The distraction was enough for Edith to stamp on her captor's foot. While he cried out in pain, she tore his arm away from her throat and ran towards Amory. He grabbed for her, even as the thug recovered and fired. Amory ducked and dove to the floor, falling over Edith to protect her. Andy and Jimmy returned fire.

Edith looked up at Amory, horrified tears in her eyes. "Amory! Oh, Amory, are you hit?" she cried.

"No, I'm fine," Amory soothed. "He missed me." He held her close. "It's going to be alright. We're going to get out of this." He prayed that was true.

The gunman hit the floor, using a nearby chair as a shield. He fired once, then twice. Two more men emerged from either side of the room, engaging Andy and Jimmy in gunplay. The police had no choice but to take cover of their own.

"Amory, what's happening?!" Edith exclaimed. She tried to raise up enough to see, but Amory kept her down.

"We've all been set up," Amory said angrily. "I don't know what's going to happen now."

And then he stiffened. With these new men fighting Andy and Jimmy, what had happened to the original thug?

A gun clicked, far too close to him. "Alright, Fallon," the cold voice growled. "You have one choice left. Tell me where the information is, or I blow your brains out with your wife right here to watch."

"_NO!"_ Edith screamed. She pulled away from Amory, diving at their nemesis.

Amory paled. "Edith, no!" he shouted. He grabbed for her in desperation as the gun fired.

The bullet never hit either of them.

The gunman swore, falling back with eyes wide.

Amory and Edith could only stare.

Something had come between them and the gun. A translucent, ethereal figure was standing in front of them, protecting them. The left hand was raised and flung backwards, as though it had knocked the bullet off-course. The lead was buried in the wall behind them.

"Ned," Amory whispered in disbelief. "Ned Thompson!"

His business partner had come back from the grave to save their lives.


	13. Spectres

**Chapter Thirteen**

The gunman fell back, clutching his weapon in horror at the sight of the ghost. Without really thinking he pulled the trigger once, then twice, directly into the left side of the spectre's chest. The bullets tore through and into the wall. The man stood exactly where he had been, glowering at the would-be murderer.

By now Andy and Jimmy had concluded the gunfight with the other thugs and were hurrying across the room to handcuff their defeated and wounded opponents. Jimmy glanced over, his jaw dropping at the other scene in the room. "Andy . . ." he gasped.

Andy looked over too. His eyes went wide.

Amory slowly got to his feet, bringing Edith with him. He was still reeling, but his enemy was even moreso. Abruptly Amory lunged, punching the criminal in the face. "Stay away from my wife!" he snarled.

The shooter fell back, hitting the wall. Andy hurried over to arrest him.

Amory turned back to face the middle of the room. The spirit was still there, watching him.

Edith approached him in stunned awe. "Ned?" she whispered.

He smiled at her and looked to Amory, questioning, uncertain. Guilt and sorrow flickered in his eyes as well, coming to the forefront of his emotions. He knew how badly he had hurt Amory in the past. And he understood if Amory could not forgive him for it. He regretted it with all of his soul.

Amory swallowed hard. He had never thought he would be faced with his dilemma of forgiveness in this point-blank way. But as he gazed at his old business partner, looking into the familiar and currently bittersweet eyes, he found that his anger was melting away. Now, to forgive no longer seemed an impossible thing to do.

"Ned . . . thank you," he said quietly.

Ned smiled again, comforted and at peace. Then, in a shimmer, he was gone.

"Who _was_ that?" Jimmy breathed.

Amory drew an arm around Edith. "Our friend," he said.

Edith looked up at him, smiling as the meaning of his words fully sank in. Lovingly, she hugged him close.

xxxx

It was moments later when Lieutenant Tragg burst into the room, complete with the squad he had promised. He stopped short and took in the scene, particularly looking to the three bound criminals. "It's all over?" he said with a mixture of surprise and relief.

"Somehow we managed," Andy smiled.

Tragg shook his head and gestured to the officers with him. "Take 'em in," he ordered.

The sullen men were dutifully shuffled out of the hotel room. Tragg sighed, replacing his gun in his holster. Looking to Andy, he glowered. "Counting both last night and today, you've probably worried me out of twenty years!" he scolded. But he softened just as quickly. "You did good, Anderson."

Andy smiled. "Thank you, Lieutenant. But I didn't do it all on my own."

"You both did good," Tragg amended, glancing to Jimmy.

"Thank you, Sir." Jimmy came forward, hope in his eyes. "Is there any news?"

Tragg shrugged. "Well . . . that depends on what's news. The Swiss police finally got into that cabin of Stratton's, but Stratton wasn't there and neither was the chessboard.

"Those snipers from Mr. Pike's lodge still won't talk." Tragg shook his head in disgust. "They're probably terrified of their boss managing to take out contracts on them."

Andy sighed. "Maybe a better question would be, has there been any progress at all?"

"The brutes who tore up my living room insist they don't know anything," Tragg grunted. "But there may be one ray of good news. Steve was on his way here too, but then he called to tell me that he'd received an urgent message from Mr. Burger. A suspect in this case whom they've been keeping under wraps regained consciousness. Steve rushed to the hospital to try to talk to him."

"What suspect is that?" Jimmy wondered.

"Oh, I imagine we'll find out all in good time." Tragg glanced around the room. "There's no telling if the walls might have grown an ear or two in here."

"I don't think any bugs were planted, Lieutenant," Edith spoke up. "But then again, I guess I'm not sure. I woke up with that horrible man dragging me out of bed!"

Amory's eyes flashed. "If I'd gotten him alone . . ."

"I'm alright, Amory," Edith interrupted, trying to reassure him. "And thank God _you're_ alright." She shuddered.

"I'll get a team in here to make sure there's no bugs," Tragg said. "Meanwhile, I suggest you people get another room."

"Gladly," Amory declared.

xxxx

Steve stood at the front door of one Julian Royal, known businessman with suspected underworld connections. He had learned quite a lot from the hatchet man Sampson had stabbed with his letter-opener. It still wasn't enough overall, but it was enough for two pieces of the puzzle. Now he knew who had hired that man and wanted Sampson dead. And it had been confirmed that _Thompkins_ really was _Thompson_, as in Ned. The cases finally latched.

The door finally opened. A confused maid blinked at him. "Hello," she greeted. "Does Mr. Royal have an appointment with you?"

"No, I'm afraid he doesn't even know I'm coming," Steve replied. "Lieutenant Drumm, Homicide." He held up his badge and a piece of paper. "I have a warrant for his arrest."

"See here, what's this?" An older man walked up behind the maid, frowning at Steve. "What kind of false charges have been filed against me now?"

"They're not false, Mr. Royal," Steve said. "Your hitman talked."

The briefest hint of concern flashed through his eyes, but he kept his voice impassive. "What hitman? What are you talking about, Lieutenant?"

"It's no good." Steve looked him straight in the eyes. "It was kept out of the papers, but we captured the man you sent to murder Gregory Sampson. He's told us everything."

Royal drew a stilted, resigned breath. "Well, then." He glanced at the warrant in Steve's hand. "Shall we go, Lieutenant?"

Steve stuffed the warrant in his pocket and took out his handcuffs. "Let's."

xxxx

Hamilton was in his office when he received two very important telephone calls.

The first was from Steve, to let him know that the man who wanted Sampson dead was in custody. He had confessed, realizing the jig was up. To that end he was involved with the Thompson case, but Steve was unsure just how deeply. What he was sure of, however, was that there were others who were far more powerful than Julian Royal.

The second call was from the hospital. The hitman was dead, but Sampson was still alive—and conscious. He was asking for Hamilton.

Hamilton was out the door in the next moment.

His stomach was tied in knots as he drove to Central Receiving. The doctor still wasn't sure if Sampson would pull through. In spite of what Hamilton tried to tell himself, he was afraid of going there and discovering Sampson dying, delivering some last, pitiful words to the boss he idolized.

And Hamilton could not stop thinking about the fact that the hitman was dead from the wound in his side. Sampson had been hurt far worse. Could he really make it? He had lost Heaven knew how much blood before Chamberlin had found him. And the blows on his head were brutal. Did he even still remember everything about himself and his life?

Hamilton barely remembered anything else about the trip. Suddenly he was parking at the hospital and heading inside and to Sampson's room.

His heart sank when he pushed open the door and saw his deputy lying in the bed, weak and pale, looking to him with glassy eyes. Sampson tried to perk up at the sight of Hamilton, but all he could manage was a trembling hand. "Mr. Burger?" His voice was pained, not as deep and as strong as it should be.

Hamilton hastened to the bedside, grasping the proffered hand. "Sampson . . ." He could not refrain from staring at the wounded body, covered only by a slim blanket. If only he could do something, anything, to ease the man's agony.

"Mr. Burger, I . . . I'm sorry. I didn't make it to court. . . . Or to deliver the files to you. . . ."

"That's not important right now," Hamilton insisted firmly. "Sampson, the only thing that matters is that you get better."

"I was assaulted in my own _house._" Sampson sounded bitter. "And he got away."

"No, he didn't." Hamilton looked into the bleary eyes, praying Sampson would understand. Success was so important to him. Specifically, succeeding in Hamilton's eyes. Sampson longed so badly to be useful.

"Sampson, you wounded him. He didn't get more than a few blocks away. The police caught him because of what you did."

Sampson leaned into the pillow, amazement flickering in his dark eyes. ". . . Has he said anything important?"

"Yes." Hamilton gripped tighter at the hand. It was so much colder than it should be. "We caught the man who wanted you dead. And he's confirmed that the Thompkins case actually involves Ned Thompson instead. We're making progress, Gregory. And it's because you made sure that hitman couldn't get far away."

Sampson looked comforted. ". . . Thank you for coming, Mr. Burger," he rasped quietly. "And for . . . for telling me."

Hamilton nodded. "You just rest. You'll be wanting out of this place before you know it."

"I'd like out now." Sampson gave a shaky smirk.

"There; you're improving already." Hamilton hoped he was keeping his voice light. His throat felt so constricted he could hardly believe it would not be audible.

"Is Victor here too?"

Hamilton swallowed. "No, he isn't. But he's been sick with worry about you. He'll come the instant I tell him you can have visitors."

"Will you . . . could you get him now?" Sampson sounded hesitant, but determined and worried as well.

Hamilton shut his eyes tightly. Sampson believed he was dying. He wanted to talk to Chamberlin one last time before he passed.

"Yes," he said as he opened his eyes. "I'll get him." He released Sampson's hand, crossing to the door. "I'll be back."

"I know. Thank you, Mr. Burger."

Hamilton nodded. "Yeah." He hurried out of the room, drawing a shaking breath.

Instead of using the hospital's phone, he made his way to an isolated corner and took out his cellphone. He was still trying to fully compose himself as he dialed.

xxxx

Victor Chamberlin slammed a stack of papers onto his desk in disgust and frustration. Hamilton had excused him from work today, but he had gone anyway, wanting to get his mind on anything other than Sampson's death. Now that he was home, he was going over every bit of information he had on the Thompkins case, including the folder—which the police had allowed him to take.

He still did not understand. What could be missing? The murderer who had killed his dear friend had insisted the folder was not complete. No one could understand what he had meant. Everything that had ever been in it was still in it now.

He jumped a mile at the jangle of the telephone. It took him a moment to dig it out of the avalanche of papers on his desk. "Hello?"

"Victor?"

Chamberlin blinked in surprise. "Mr. Burger," he acknowledged. "What's happening? Has there been any news about . . ."

"Victor, can you please come to Central Receiving Hospital?" Mr. Burger sounded uncomfortable and deeply saddened. "There's something I have to tell you, but it shouldn't be on the phone."

Chamberlin leaned back in the chair. "Yes, Mr. Burger. I can come right away. But why are you at the hospital? You aren't hurt, are you?"

"No. I'm not hurt. Please come as quickly as you can. I'm afraid it can't wait."

"I'm leaving now."

And Chamberlin meant it. He hung up the phone and got up, leaving his desk in its current disarray as he hastened to get to the garage.

"Central Receiving Hospital," he mused to himself and the car when he was en route to his destination. "That was where they took Gregory."

He drove to the location, tense and concerned. By the time he arrived and Hamilton saw him, his usually calm demeanor was badly strained.

"Mr. Burger, what is it?" he demanded as he entered. "You sounded so urgent on the phone."

Hamilton nodded. "It is urgent," he said. He laid a hand on Chamberlin's shoulder, steering him out of the way and into a nook in the front waiting room.

Chamberlin looked to him pleadingly, a heart-wrenching, desperate hope in his eyes. "Mr. Burger, there isn't any chance that Gregory . . . that he was brought back?"

Hamilton visibly cringed. "I had to make a decision today that I didn't want to make," he said. "Victor, please understand. We were worried that whoever sent for the hitman would send for another one if he knew . . ."

Chamberlin gripped Hamilton's shoulders. "He never was dead, was he?!" he exclaimed. He knew of such procedures in desperate times. It should have occurred to him that it could possibly be the case with Sampson. When Sampson had been pronounced dead at the scene, Chamberlin had been too stunned, too numb and overwhelmed, to disbelieve it.

Hamilton shook his head. "No," he admitted. "He wasn't dead. He _isn't_ dead. But Victor . . ." He fought to gather his thoughts. "I'm afraid he still might die. The doctor doesn't know. And Sampson himself has come to and seems to think he's on his deathbed. He's asked for you."

The color drained from Chamberlin's face and he wavered. "Where is he?" he asked.

"I'll take you to him," Hamilton replied.

As they walked, he explained about the other elements of the case, including the hitman's genuine deathbed moments and confession. Chamberlin listened, all but crushing the brim of his hat in his hands.

". . . I've been grasping at straws, trying to find some answers, some _meaning,_ in what happened to Gregory," Chamberlin said at last. "And I was trying to connect Lieutenant Anderson's case with the Thompkins mess. I remembered something about a man in a trenchcoat. Officer Anderson thought the man was following his cousin."

"I remember that," Hamilton nodded. "It's still being investigated, I can assure you."

"And Stratton's disappearance. . . ." Chamberlin stiffened as Hamilton stopped in front of a door.

"Everything is being investigated," Hamilton said. "But please, don't worry about it now. Just go to him. He needs you."

Chamberlin nodded and pushed open the door. "Gregory?"

Hamilton lingered in the doorway just long enough to see Sampson reach for Chamberlin the same way he had reached for Hamilton. Chamberlin rushed in, taking his friend's hand. "I thought you were dead," he exclaimed.

"I won't be surprised if it still happens," Sampson answered. "I was worried you might not come in time. I didn't want to tell Mr. Burger, but . . ."

Chamberlin sank into the chair, still having hold of Sampson's hand. "He knew," he said thickly. "And I saw what you were thinking before you said anything. But dear God, I'm still praying you're wrong."

Hamilton shut the door quietly, his heart aching for them both. "So am I," he whispered. "Please, God, let him live." He turned to go up the hall, gazing imploringly at the ceiling. _"Please."_

xxxx

Sampson lapsed back into unconsciousness shortly afterwards and did not awaken. Hamilton and Chamberlin went to the waiting room, fearful of what the next hours would bring.

"The last thing he said to me was that he wished he could personally solve the rest of the mystery," Chamberlin said miserably. "I told him I would do all I could in his place. But it shouldn't be _me, _Mr. Burger. It should be him."

Hamilton laid a hand on his deputy's shoulder. "There's still a chance he'll live," he said. "Maybe he even will be able to get in on some of it. But in the meantime, we have to do all we can to figure out what's going on and tie everything together. You know that, Victor."

"Yes." Chamberlin nodded. He sighed, fighting to pull himself together as he stepped away, crossing slowly to the window.

"It's strange to remember how he was when he first came to the office," he remarked. "A law book in one hand and a newspaper in the other. He believed he could conquer the entire empire of crime in Los Angeles County." He chuckled. "That was what he called it, too."

"And right off the bat, he and Edgeworth hit it off all wrong," Hamilton said, shaking his head.

"They're both so headstrong, they can't be in the same room for more than five minutes without finding something to disagree on," Chamberlin sighed.

"I've always hated hearing them go at it," Hamilton said. "It's funny how I wish I could be in my office, listening to them now and going for the aspirin."

"I wish I could be breaking up their latest argument," Chamberlin said.

Hamilton gazed into the night through the window. "I was a lot like Sampson when I first joined the district attorney's office," he said. "I guess to some extent, a lot of us are. The difference is that most of us get worn-down and cynical after a while."

"And Sampson rarely changes," Chamberlin added. "Oh, he's gained maturity and discretion. I've seen that through the years. But that fighting spirit never dies." He stared at the city lights. "I just pray it's enough to pull him through again."

Hamilton nodded sadly.

For a moment they stood in silence, lost in their memories and their petitions to the Divine. Then, abruptly, Chamberlin spoke.

"Mr. Burger . . . who is Warner Griffith?"

Hamilton started. "Where did you hear that name?" he exclaimed.

"From Sampson," Chamberlin frowned. "Just before he fell unconscious. He just mumbled the name. I'm not sure he even knew what he was saying."

"That's odd." Hamilton turned away from the window. "I don't remember who he is, exactly, but I was involved in a case concerning him a long time ago."

"What case was that?" Chamberlin blinked.

"It had to do with a local businessman, I think," Hamilton said. "I'll have to look up the details in my files."

Chamberlin just stared. "What would Griffith have to do with the problems now? Unless he was involved with Amory Fallon, that is."

"No, Fallon wasn't the businessman," Hamilton said. "I remember that much. But this poor guy was being framed into taking a murder rap, too."

"By Griffith?"

"I don't think so." Hamilton glanced at the clock. "Sampson must have had a reason to mention that name. I'm going to go home and look it up in my database."

Chamberlin nodded. "That's a good idea."

"I'll let you know what I find out," Hamilton promised. "Are you going to stay here?"

"Yes," Chamberlin told him. "At least for a while. I'll let you know if . . . anything happens. Good or bad."

"Alright." Hamilton headed for the doors. "I'll see you later."

And, he prayed, it would be under happier circumstances.

xxxx

Amory sighed as he sank back into the couch, resting his head near the top. Next to him, Edith gently ran her hands along his arm. On the other side of the same couch, Andy was gingerly massaging his injured leg.

"I've never even been to the cemetery, you know," Amory remarked. "Where Ned's buried, I mean."

Edith nodded. "I went once. Just once," she quickly emphasized. "I was so confused about what he'd done, and so sad at his death in spite of it all, and so upset that you were being charged with his murder. . . ." She shuddered. "I went there hoping to find some answers."

Amory relaxed, letting her sooth his sore arm. "And did you?"

"No." She sighed. "But it is a beautiful place, there in the city cemetery. There's both bushes and pine trees near the grave."

Andy frowned. "The city cemetery," he mused. "That's where the Graveyard Murder happened." He straightened. "It obviously connects with this whole, insane puzzle, but none of the people we've arrested or questioned know how. Brendon Mileson's story only answers half the question. If we knew who the actual murderer was, maybe a lot of other things would start making sense!"

"If we knew where _J.K. Stratton_ is, and if he'd talk, a lot of these problems would make sense," Amory declared. "No _maybe_ about it."

"I guess there's no chance the daughter knows something she's not telling," Andy said.

"At this point, I'd believe almost anything," Amory sighed. "Everyone's a suspect." He closed his eyes, longing to doze and yet feeling much too awake to be able to. When Andy's phone rang the next moment, his eyes snapped open and he sighed in exasperation.

Andy gave him an apologetic look as he flipped it open. "Hello?"

Whatever the news was, it was clearly bad, if him stiffening and growing somber was any indication. When he hung up, he looked sickened.

"What is it?" Amory asked in concern. Edith's worried eyes echoed the query.

Andy looked to them with regret. "I'm sorry to have to tell you this," he said. "Your secretary, Miss Ames, has disappeared. It looks like she's been kidnapped."

**End of Part One**

**Notes: If anyone catches the sly reference, yes, it's **_**that**_** Edgeworth. The idea amused me too much not to use it sometime.**

**Regarding the "Part One" bit. This story is about to launch into a second arc, still totally connected to the first, but with some additional elements and characters. Because of that, I had considered just ending this story altogether and starting up a sequel, but I just didn't feel good about it. Separating the two pieces by calling them "Parts" makes me feel a lot better. Hence, Part Two will be posted as part of this same overall story, instead of as a separate sequel. Thank you for your continuing interest!**


	14. Jason

**Notes: The explanation on why I created this backstory for Sampson is a long one, but suffice it to say I thought it would be interesting if his past helped shape him into the zealous prosecutor we see in season 4. It was inspired by an episode of **_**Diagnosis Murder**_** called **_**Reunion with Murder.**_

**Part Two**

**Chapter 14**

Hamilton leaned back in his office chair, tiredly rubbing his eyes.

By now the question was not _What else can go wrong?_ It was _What can go __**right?**_

Sampson was badly wounded and in a coma, not expected to live.

Amory Fallon's secretary had been abducted.

J.K. Stratton was still missing.

So were the mysterious contents of Ned Thompson's chess knight statue.

Hamilton threw a pencil onto his desk. Not everything that had been happening was bad. He had to try to focus on that or he would go out of his mind.

Sampson was still alive. There was still a chance he would pull through. And Andy and Amory were both alive, too. They could have been killed by the myriad of enemies that had been collected on this case, but they hadn't been.

Andy's informant had told about what had happened in Griffith Park. And Sampson's assailant had led Steve to pick up the man who had ordered the acquisition of the Thompson folder and the hit on Sampson. Steve was sure that there were others involved, likely in higher positions than Julian Royal, but it was still a relief to have that man in custody.

A quiet knock on the door gave Hamilton a start. "Come in," he said in surprise. It was late; he had let Leon go home some time ago.

He was further surprised when the door opened and Mignon Germaine stepped into the room. "Hamilton . . ." She looked at him in sorrow. "I'm so sorry about Mr. Sampson."

Hamilton sighed. "Thank you." He got up, going over to his friend. "Did you see the latest piece on the news?"

"I saw that the man who ordered him killed has been arrested," Mignon said. "And the reporter mentioned that you had falsely said Sampson was dead, in order to preserve his life from a future attack."

"Yes." Hamilton felt so tired. "But he's only barely alive. The doctor told Chamberlin and me that it will be a miracle if he lasts the night. Sampson was awake earlier and thought he was dying too."

"As long as he is still alive, there is hope," Mignon said.

Hamilton nodded. "I know. We've been clinging to that." He walked over to the couch. "Please, sit down, Mignon."

Mignon followed him and did so. As her longtime friend sat next to her, she gripped her purse but hesitated.

"There's something else you wanted to talk about, isn't there?" Hamilton said at last.

Mignon looked to him with regret. "I don't like to burden you with another problem, Hamilton."

"I still have all of Los Angeles County to look out for," Hamilton said with a weak smile. "Is this an official problem or off the record?"

"Official, I'm afraid. Something very strange has happened." Mignon paused again before beginning. Taking a picture out of her purse, she held it out to Hamilton and said, "Have you ever seen this woman before?"

Hamilton accepted the photograph, staring at the image of an innocent-looking blonde woman. "No," he said in amazement. "Should I have?"

"I don't know. Her name is Virginia. She appeared a week or so ago, claiming that she is the long-lost cousin mentioned in Mr. Peterson's father's will and that she has a right to share in the profit from the treasure the Petersons found in their attic."

"So what's the problem?" Hamilton wondered, handing the picture back. "Do they think she isn't the cousin?"

"They're not sure," Mignon said. "She could be; they both admitted that. But she arrived without any papers or identification, and her explanation of their destruction in a fire seems almost too convenient."

"How does she explain being gone all these years?" Hamilton queried.

"She claims she left to find her own way and that she didn't hear of the senior Mr. Peterson's death until just the other night."

"It took her over two years to hear about it, then," Hamilton frowned.

Mignon nodded. "Of course there's the possibility she's telling the truth. The Petersons can't say for certain, as it's been so long since they've seen this cousin, but they both believe she's a fraud. As Douglas has put it, something just doesn't seem right about her."

"Well . . ." Hamilton gave her a puzzled look. "There's more to this, isn't there? Otherwise it seems like you'd have been better off taking this case to Mr. Mason."

"There's something that may be pertinent to your current case, Hamilton."

Hamilton stared. "What's that?!"

"Today she spilled her purse while discussing the Petersons' inheritance with me. And I caught sight of a picture of Amory Fallon."

Now Hamilton's jaw dropped. "Did you ask her about it?"

"I did," Mignon confirmed. "She said they have a mutual friend. I thought it was strange, that she would appear with that photograph when Mr. Fallon has been having so much trouble of late."

"It is strange," Hamilton said. "Have you told the police yet?"

"I wanted to consult you first of all," Mignon said.

"Well, I say we'd better ask Mr. Fallon about her," Hamilton said, grabbing for his phone. "What's her name again?"

"Just Virginia. She says she hasn't used her surname in a long time and feels very unused to it. Of course, if she is who she claims to be, her surname is Peterson. She's from Douglas's side of the family."

Hamilton paused, holding the phone in his hand. "The surname thing is like Vivalene and Flo," he remarked.

"I know. Do you think there's a connection?"

"There could be," Hamilton acknowledged. "Or it could just be coincidence. There's no proof it isn't."

An exhausted Amory soon answered the phone. "Hello?"

"Hello, Mr. Fallon," Hamilton greeted. "This is Hamilton Burger."

"Is there any news on Miss Ames?!" Amory immediately demanded.

Hamilton's eyes filled with regret. "I'm sorry, no. I was calling to see if you know any women named Virginia."

Amory was stunned. "No one," he insisted. "Why? Who's Virginia?"

Hamilton sighed. He could tell that Amory was growing uneasy. He had been through so much in the last twenty-four hours. They all had. Hamilton was as brief as he could be when describing Virginia to Amory.

At the conclusion, Amory was still baffled. "I've never met anyone like you're describing," he said.

"I didn't think so, Mr. Fallon, but I had to be sure. She may try contacting you. She has your picture with her."

"What?! Why would she have that?!"

"She claimed you know a mutual friend of hers," Hamilton said.

"I'm sure I don't. But look, Mr. Burger, I'll dig up what I can and get back to you."

"Alright. Thank you, Mr. Fallon. How are you and your wife?"

"We're fine, just exhausted," Amory said. "How's Mr. Sampson?"

"There hasn't been any change," Hamilton said somberly.

"Edith says to tell you we're praying for him."

Hamilton managed a slight smile. "Thanks to you both. He can use all the prayers he can get."

He hung up moments later, more bewildered than ever. "Do you think Virginia is lying about that mutual friend?" he asked Mignon.

"I couldn't say," Mignon replied. "But when I asked for the name, she wouldn't tell it."

"That's strange," Hamilton frowned. "Not that it's any stranger than the rest of your story."

He stood. "I promise I'll do whatever I can to look into this."

Mignon stood as well. "Thank you, Hamilton."

xxxx

For some time after Mignon's departure, Hamilton continued to sit in his office, mulling over Mignon's problem in addition to the mountain of other calamities.

Sitting to the left side of his desk was a folder. On the laptop's screen was the corresponding file. Hamilton had performed a search on his files for the name _Warner Griffith_, which Sampson had mysteriously mumbled right before losing consciousness the last time. Now, at last Hamilton had located the case from which he recalled the name.

The frustration was, it did not get him any closer to understanding what relevance the name had to these current disasters.

Warner Griffith had been an important player in the Daniel Conway case several years earlier. A former member of the board of directors of the oil company Cal-Texas Explorations, he had been embroiled in a bitter proxy fight with Daniel Conway, the company president. He had tried to smear Conway's name and integrity with vicious lies, and had even insisted from the witness stand that Conway had been guilty of murder. Hamilton was unsure whether Griffith had really believed the latter, in his hateful state, but there was no mistake about Griffith's involvement in spreading other tales that he knew were lies.

Hamilton reached for the phone. He had been about to call Perry when Mignon had arrived. Perry had defended Conway in the murder case. Hamilton hoped that Perry might have some idea of what was going on now.

The phone rang several times before it was answered. "Hello?" Perry sounded breathless.

Hamilton rocked back. "Hello, Perry. You sound like you've just come from running a marathon."

"Della, Paul, and I were having a late dinner," Perry explained. "We heard the phone ringing down the hall as we were coming back.

"Hamilton, what is it? Is there any news?"

"Oh, there's plenty of news," Hamilton said. "The problem is, most of it doesn't make sense.

"Perry, do you still have contact with Daniel Conway?"

"The president of Cal-Texas Explorations?" Perry sounded stunned. "Not much contact, no. Della tried to play matchmaker with Mr. Conway and a young woman who liked him, but they got together without much help from Della. We get a Christmas card each year from Mr. Conway's office, but that's about it."

Hamilton sighed. "Right before Sampson fell into that coma, Chamberlin heard him whisper the name _Warner Griffith_. And Perry, I'm stumped. I don't see any reason why Sampson should know him, especially where the Thompson case is concerned."

"I don't understand, either, Hamilton." Perry's frown could be heard over the phone. "I haven't heard anything about Warner Griffith. I wasn't even sure if he was out of prison yet."

"Oh, he's out," Hamilton said. "That's about all I know. And I guess he _could_ be up to his old tricks with Conway. But that still wouldn't involve Sampson." He pushed the file aside on his desk. "I'm going to go through Sampson's files and see if I can learn anything there."

"Good idea. If you want me to, Hamilton, I'll call Daniel Conway and see what he can tell me."

"Thank you, Perry. I may take you up on that."

Despite the late hour, Hamilton headed down the hall to Sampson's office as soon as he had hung up with Perry. He knew he would never be able to sleep with this hanging over him. And he hoped and prayed there would be some answers to be found in his deputy's files.

A profound sadness swept over him as he switched on the light and stared at the perfectly straight office. Sampson was a very neat and organized person; everything was in its proper place.

Would he ever return to his office? Would Hamilton ever even talk to him again?

Hamilton let the door close behind him as he advanced into the room. He would not be able to get into Sampson's computer, as he knew for a fact it was password-protected. But if there was any information to be found, it would surely be amongst Sampson's physical files.

Crossing to the filing cabinet in the corner, Hamilton pulled open a drawer and began pawing through the tabs, looking for G. His eyes widened when a folder marked _Griffith_ leaped out at him. He grabbed it and flipped it open.

The top item in the file was an old newspaper article. Hamilton stared at the headline in amazement.

_Jason Griffith Missing After College Scandal_

Hamilton walked to Sampson's chair almost mechanically as he continued to read.

It seemed that this Jason was Warner's college-age son, described by everyone as a sweet, quiet boy. But he had become involved in a scandal on campus, found wandering drunk and clad only in underwear—and holding the keys to one of the other students' expensive cars. In the hopes of warding off bad publicity for the school, he had been asked to quietly leave.

It had only been hours later when he had vanished, leaving only a note.

Hamilton slumped back, bewildered. What was Sampson doing with this information? He had not been an assistant district attorney then, according to the date of publication. In fact, he should have still been in college himself. . . .

Hamilton turned the article over. The next items in the folder were other articles, mostly involving the troubled father, Warner, and his proxy war with Daniel Conway. Another documented Warner's subsequent arrest, and yet another, his release.

Hamilton shook his head. He was not learning anything of help. If anything, he was becoming more confused the more he read. There had been not so much as a whisper of why Sampson was so interested in the Griffith family.

Now there were no more articles. Instead, to Hamilton's utter shock, he unearthed a copy of a letter written to Sampson from his father.

What was it doing in _this_ folder? In fact, what was it doing in the office at all, instead of at home? Hamilton did not like prying into Sampson's personal affairs, but this could be important. He began to read.

_Son—_

_It has come to my attention that you contacted Warner Griffith upon his release from prison. I was under the impression that the matter was over and closed. You were ordered to not so much as look at that man again. Haven't your actions caused enough grief for the Griffiths and enough potential scandal material for us, if Warner ever decides to let it get out? That would ruin you as well as us._

_You've already gone far beyond our wishes by putting your legal training into this ridiculous ideal of yours of protecting the common man against criminal acts. If you were going to be a lawyer, you should have tried to get into a firm, and one that only handles clients suitable for your social standing. There are many that would have been pleased to have you, and there still are. Say the word and I'll arrange it._

—_Father_

Hamilton sat gaping at the letter. It was devoid of affection, as usual. Sampson was not on good terms with his parents. Currently they were traveling in Europe and had been unable to be reached concerning their son's mortal injuries.

Hamilton hated to let them know at all, really. This letter only reinforced those feelings. In the end they did not care about Gregory, Hamilton thought bitterly. They cared only about their own reputations.

And what on Earth was the man talking about, concerning Sampson and Warner Griffith? What could Sampson have possibly done to get this kind of reaction from his father?

Hamilton set the letter aside. There were only two items left in the folder. The first was a note written in a furious scrawl that sent Hamilton reeling even more than before.

_I don't care that you were the only one to show remorse for what happened._

_You were still involved, and as far as I'm concerned, you helped lose my son._

_I'll never forgive you. And if you come around again, I'll kill you._

Hamilton stared at the words as though doing so would help him better understand. He was only being pushed farther into the realm of utter confusion. None of this made sense. Obviously Sampson had some sort of skeleton in his closet, but how serious was it? Out of everyone working with him, Hamilton absolutely could not believe that Sampson would be hiding something that would finish his career as an assistant district attorney were it to come out.

Sampson's zealousness and seeking for righteousness was not an act. Hamilton knew that. He was not a criminal. Hamilton knew that, too.

. . . Didn't he? How many witnesses had insisted they _knew_ someone could not be guilty, only to be sadly proven wrong?

Hamilton's eyes narrowed. No. He would believe in Sampson's integrity.

The last object in the folder was a sealed envelope. Hamilton lifted it up, stunned anew by what Sampson had written across it.

_To Mr. Burger,_

_to be opened in the event of my death_

Well, thank God, Sampson was not dead yet. But this could be critical. And aside from that, Hamilton had to admit that after what he had read so far, there was no way he could put this envelope away without opening it. He had to know the truth.

The letter-opener on the desk made him cringe. He did not think he could stand to use one of those right now, not after one of them had inflicted the wounds responsible for Sampson's current fight for life. Hamilton tore the envelope manually, removing the letter inside.

_Dear Mr. Burger,_

_I'm sorry if you're reading these words. I wanted to tell you the full truth in person, but I've apparently been silenced before I could._

_My father has no idea that I'm confiding this to you, but I felt from the beginning that you deserved to know. I initially kept it secret out of respect for him and my mother, and out of a desire to not drag Jason Griffith's name through any further scandal, but I can see now that it eventually has to come out. I know you will keep it quiet until that day._

_I believe you're aware of my family's social position in the Los Angeles area. As a youth I always reveled in our wealthy lifestyle and in having whatever I wanted at my beck and call. I realize it probably sounds strange to you now, but when I entered college all I really wanted to do was to engage myself in the wild college life. I didn't even have an idea of what I wanted to study, nor did I particularly care._

_I half-heartedly signed up for several classes and skipped them most of the time. I had made the acquaintance of a group of rowdy older students and we spent the majority of our days and nights together. There were drunken parties most nights and walking around campus trying to be "cool" most days, in spite of our massive hangovers._

_I don't know how or why, but Jason Griffith admired our group and wanted to be part of it. He was every bit the shy, quiet boy all the newspaper articles say he was. He was a loner, the sort of fellow who was disliked and had problems making friends._

_The older students had the idea to pretend to induct him into our clique. It was all a fraud; none of them intended to actually let him in, even if he managed to get himself intoxicated and perform the stunts the others had in mind._

_Mr. Burger, I am ashamed that I ever had any part in their cruel scheme. I wasn't one of the ringleaders, but I went along with every bit of it. And then it went sour in a way none of us had foreseen._

_You've no doubt seen the articles and other clippings in my folder. You surely know that Jason was caught by the campus police in his inebriated state, improperly attired and behaving as though he was guarding England's Crown Jewels themselves. One of the boys had given Jason the keys to his car, saying it was all his. Jason couldn't have been more proud, even in his state._

_When I saw how he reacted, I wanted to call the whole thing off. I was, unfortunately, a wild party animal, but I wasn't altogether heartless. But that was when the campus police appeared, and I was herded away with the others, leaving Jason to take the fall._

_It was the next day when we heard that Jason had been asked to leave the college. It hadn't been part of the plan, but the others weren't bothered; one of them even laughed and said we'd finally taken care of the "Jason problem". I was sickened! My eyes were finally opened and I saw those people for the heartless wretches they were. I didn't want anything more to do with any of them._

_They threatened me with bodily harm if I breathed a word of the truth, but I went to the dean and told him everything. I hoped so much that Jason could be reinstated and given another chance. I was even willing to leave the college in Jason's place, if they would only take the blame away from him and lay it at my feet. The others refused to corroborate my story, but Jason surely would have . . . if he hadn't already disappeared._

_The note he left said he could not bear to face his father with another failure. I went to Mr. Griffith to try to explain the truth. He believed me, but threw me out of the house and threatened to ruin my entire family with the story._

_I didn't know what to do. I wanted Jason's name cleared, but I didn't want to be the cause of sullying the family name, either. I finally had to settle for my father's arrangement with Mr. Griffith, the police and the press. The story was released, but without the names of any of the students who had arranged the out-of-control prank. No one other than the other students, the dean, the Griffiths, and my family knew of my involvement._

_Mr. Burger, Jason Griffith is still missing, all these years later. No one has found a trace of him at all. His father has long believed him dead. I don't know what to think, but I know his fate has been on my hands ever since that horrible night at the campus. I can never atone for what happened to him. I know it now and I knew it then._

_But I knew something else, as well. If I could possibly help it, I was never going to let anyone else be hurt. Nor did I want to let anyone get away with hurting someone else, as those other students got away with what happened to Jason. None of them have suffered unless their consciences have bothered them, and from what I know of their current stations in life, I very much doubt that they ever listen to their consciences!_

_I wanted to do something to make a positive difference. That was when I decided to study law. My father was pleased at first; he thought I would become a powerful and high profile defense attorney. He was horrified when I said my intentions were to join the district attorney's office. Both he and my mother have tried to discourage me since then, but I knew it was the right path for me._

_My regret is that it took the pain and suffering of another—pain and suffering that I helped cause—to make me turn my life around. If only I could take it all back, to reverse time so that it would never have happened! Or at least, so that we could have found Jason the next morning before he vanished._

_I want to believe Jason is alive. Every now and then I find a lead that sounds like it could involve him, and I follow it, but so far I haven't had any success._

_Warner Griffith still hates me, quite rightly so. I don't want to place blame where it doesn't belong, but he has sent me a threatening note today. I don't know whether he'll carry out my murder or not. I've uncovered evidence that he may be involved with the Thompkins case, as a member of the organization that silenced Thompkins, but I'm unsure if it's genuine. I don't want to say until I've had the chance to investigate another possible lead. If I don't come back, I've left instructions for this folder to immediately be given to you._

_Thank you for all that you've done for me. In many ways, Mr. Burger, I've looked up to and admired you far more than my own father. You are an honest man of integrity of whom I can be truly proud. It's been an honor to work with you._

_Sincerely,_

_Gregory Sampson_

"Oh Sampson," Hamilton whispered in sorrow at the conclusion. He had been right to keep his belief in his deputy. Sampson had been living with this demon for years. It was no wonder that he had so thoroughly devoted himself to the pursuit of criminals and protection of the guiltless.

The letter was dated the day before. He must have written and printed it out right before he had come to Hamilton, wanting to talk with him following Andy's disappearance in Griffith Park.

Deeply shaken, Hamilton gathered the letter and the rest of the folder's contents and hurried to the door. Sampson had not mentioned the lead, but Hamilton wondered if it was the angle he had pitched in the car, concerning the possible survival of Harvey Harlen, the assassin. He had started to investigate that after getting Hamilton's approval, but as far as Hamilton knew, nothing concrete had been uncovered.

He would take up the investigation now, he vowed. And as far as he was concerned, Warner Griffith had some questions to answer.

xxxx

Andy sighed when his phone rang. He was exhausted from the calamitous day. All he wanted now was to rest. Judging from Amory's answering sigh on the other end of the couch, he felt the same. Neither of them could stand the thought of any more ill news tonight.

Andy reached over, fumbling with the phone before getting it open. "Hello?" he mumbled.

The caller's words snapped him awake. "What?!" he gasped. "When?"

Amory and Edith perked up, staring at him in bewilderment. "What's going on?" Amory asked when Andy hung up moments later.

Andy fixed him with a serious look as he closed his phone. "Your secretary has been found and brought into town, shaken and frightened but otherwise alright."

"Why, that's wonderful!" Edith exclaimed. "That poor girl."

"But what aren't you telling us, Lieutenant?" Amory asked, relieved but tense. He felt as Andy did—that it was too strange, that there must be a catch.

"It's an awfully odd coincidence, in light of what Mr. Burger said to you when he called," Andy said. "And maybe it's not a coincidence at all. The person who found Miss Ames and brought her in gave her name as Virginia."


	15. Virginia

**Chapter Fifteen**

Amory was eager to make sure Miss Ames was safe, as well as apprehensive to meet this mysterious Virginia. Andy, concerned about him traveling outside the hotel, called Lieutenant Tragg for advice and explained everything Hamilton had told him. Feeling it would be good for Amory to encounter Virginia under monitored conditions, Tragg arranged for a squad car to pick them up and take them to the police station.

"It would be good if their meeting could clear up a lot of the confusion around here," Tragg remarked.

"That sounds almost too good to be true," Andy said wistfully.

"Uh huh. That's why it probably will be," Tragg returned.

Andy had to admit that could very well be the case. Especially since Virginia seemed to be the source of a great deal _more_ confusion when they already had more than enough.

"Do you know yet whether she's the Virginia Mr. Burger was talking about?" he queried.

"She is," Tragg grunted. "She's mentioned the Petersons."

"This is all so strange," Andy said, shaking his head.

"Tell me about it," Tragg said wryly.

xxxx

Miss Ames was being questioned when they arrived at the station. But as Amory glanced about, restless and tense as he and Andy interrogated the desk sergeant, he stiffened in surprise. A woman he had never before seen was coming towards him with a smile that was all at once bright, friendly, and somehow unsettling.

"Why, hello!" she chirped in a faint Southern accent. "You must be Mr. Fallon. They told me you're that nice Miss Ames' boss. I'm so glad I could find her and bring her back safe."

"I'm very grateful to you," Amory said. "But I'm confused. How did you happen to run across Miss Ames?"

"She'd escaped from those awful people who took her," Virginia told him. "And I was just taking a walk in the lovely early autumn air. We just happened to meet." She shrugged. "I told her I'd get her back to the city safe and sound."

"Did she know anything about the people who abducted her?" Amory queried. "Did you see them?"

"Oh, Heavens, no," Virginia replied, and then flushed. "Er, well, I didn't see them, at least. I guess I don't know what she might've seen. But she's telling it all to the police now, so I'm sure you'll be able to find out."

"Yes, yes, of course," Amory said with some impatience. "And you're _sure_ you didn't see anything?"

"Nothing, just like I already told the nice sergeant," Virginia said.

Amory sighed, massaging his forehead. "Alright. Thank you."

She peered at him in concern. "You're alright, aren't you?"

"Hmm? Oh. Yes, I'm fine." Amory looked back with amazement.

"Good," Virginia smiled and relaxed. "I'd hate for you to be all upset and worried on Miss Ames' account. She's just fine too."

"I'm glad to hear it. And thank you for looking out for her." Amory leaned on the desk, deeply frowning.

"No trouble! I'm always happy to help someone in need." Virginia stepped away. "I'll go see if they're done talking to Miss Ames yet. I'll send her along if they are. Bye!" She waved at him and hurried off.

A moment of stunned silence followed.

". . . Strange, isn't she," Andy remarked.

"I have to admit she is," Amory said. "She seems pleasant enough, but . . . I don't know. At the same time, something just seems . . . _wrong_ about her."

"I have that same feeling," said Andy. "Maybe it's that she seems too perky to be believable. And I noticed she made no mention that she already knew who you are from that picture in her purse."

"I noticed too," Amory grumbled. He looked to Edith, who had been standing at the desk with Andy while observing in open-mouthed shock. "What did you think of her, Edith?"

Edith shook her head. "I'm sorry, Amory. I'm not really sure what to think. She did seem friendly. . . ."

"_Seem_ might be the keyword here," Amory frowned. He ran a hand into his hair in frustration. "Or maybe I'm just being paranoid. I'm good at that."

"Oh Amory. . . ." Edith laid a hand on his arm.

"Mr. Fallon?"

Everyone looked up with a start. Vivian Ames was coming over now, a bit dazed and shaken, but otherwise alright. She gripped her purse's handles as she approached.

"Miss Ames!" Amory stepped to her. "What in Heaven's name happened?!"

"I'm not even sure," Miss Ames admitted. She tried to eliminate the tremor in her voice. "These horrible men knocked out the police guard at my house and dragged me away! They were all dressed like ninjas or cat burglars too, so I couldn't even see who they were." She shook her head. "I don't know how I managed to get away."

Andy limped forward. "Miss Ames, I'm Lieutenant Anderson." He flashed his badge. "Did that Virginia woman have anything to do with your getting free?"

She looked to him in bewilderment. "No," she said. "I didn't run into her until I got away and was trying to go through the thick trees. She was taking a walk at the same time."

"A nice coincidence, isn't it?"

"Yes, it is." She frowned, looking from him to Amory. "But you don't believe it was a coincidence, do you, Mr. Fallon?"

Amory sighed. "Frankly, Miss Ames, I don't know _what_ I believe."

"Well, it's all in the police sergeant's report," she told him. "I'm sorry to be rude, Mr. Fallon, but I really would like to get home."

"Of course." Amory backed off.

"You probably shouldn't drive back alone," Andy spoke up. "I'll have one of the squad cars escort you. Or better yet, perhaps you'd better register at a hotel for the night. There's always the possibility that those men will return and try to take you again."

"I can't imagine why they would," Miss Ames objected. "But I don't think I want to take any chances. Thank you, Lieutenant." She stepped back to wait for her ride.

Amory gazed after her, overwhelmed. "Ninjas?!" he whispered in utter disbelief.

Andy glanced to him. "You don't believe her?"

"That's the problem," Amory sighed. "I do. Oh, I don't know _what's_ going to happen next!" He turned away, throwing his hands into the air. "I don't think I could be more astonished if a television set flew past the window with wings!"

"I think that might be _less_ shocking than this case," Tragg quipped as he appeared.

"I'm afraid you're right," Andy groaned. He tried to smile. "Hello, Lieutenant."

Tragg nodded to him and walked across the lobby to Miss Ames. "Good evening, Miss Ames," he greeted. "I'm Lieutenant Tragg. I'll take you to the hotel of your choice."

She smiled in relief. "Thank you, Lieutenant," she declared. "May we go now?"

"Yes, of course." Tragg gestured to the nearest door. "My car is ready and waiting. Goodbye, Andy. Mr. Fallon."

"Goodbye, Lieutenant," the blond men chorused. "Miss Ames."

She managed a smile and a farewell as she walked out with the senior Lieutenant. Andy gazed after them, lost in his thoughts.

Amory finally tapped him on the shoulder. "Interested?" he asked in faint amusement.

Andy started. "Excuse me? Oh." He glanced towards the departing Miss Ames again. "She _is_ very beautiful," he said.

"And she's available," Amory said.

Edith nodded. "Poor Vivian has had bad luck with men. She was dating both Ned Thompson and Bert Nickols in the past. Of course, now Ned's dead and Bert is in prison."

"Well." Andy toyed with his hat in his hands. "I wouldn't want to give her more bad luck."

"Who knows—you might break the chain," Amory said. "At least you're not a criminal."

"In any case, that's a subject for another time," Andy declared. "How about right now you look over her statement and see if anything stands out or makes sense to you?"

"Of course," Amory said in surprise. "I'd be happy to. I wish things _would_ make sense again."

"Don't we all," Andy said ruefully as he escorted the Fallons down the corridor.

xxxx

Daniel P. Conway hung up one telephone only to answer another. The offices of Cal-Texas Explorations were unusually busy this evening. If he had known it was going to be like this, he likely would have requested Miss Eastman to stay longer. He had let her go some time earlier.

By now he would very much like to leave himself, but he was trying to get a PowerPoint presentation ready for a meeting of the company board members in the morning. He did not feel like packing up his laptop and driving home while the ideas were still fresh on his mind. He wanted to work them out here and now.

"Hello?" he said into the second phone, occupied.

The familiar voice on the other end of the phone startled him. "Mr. Conway?"

He rocked back. "Mr. Mason!" he exclaimed. "This is a surprise. How are you?"

"Well, at the moment, concerned," Perry said. "And hoping you might be able to help with a rather serious dilemma."

"I'll do what I can," Daniel promised. "What's the problem?"

"I realize this might be an uncomfortable subject, but have you had any contact with Warner Griffith recently?"

Daniel blinked. "Why, no. He hasn't contacted me since he was released from prison. And I certainly haven't been rushing to reestablish contact."

"I can imagine not. Have you heard anything about what he might be up to these days?"

"Nothing," Daniel asserted. "And as long as he isn't plotting against me again, that's just fine with me." He picked up a pencil, tapping the eraser on the desk. "What's wrong, Mr. Mason? What does he have to do with your dilemma?"

"Maybe nothing," Perry replied. "Maybe everything. Have you heard the news today? Specifically, the news about Mr. Burger's assistant district attorney Gregory Sampson?"

"I heard he was dead," Daniel said. "Then later the report came through that he was alive, but comatose."

"That's right. And immediately prior to his lapsing into a coma, he said Warner Griffith's name."

Daniel paused in his pencil-tapping. "Why would he be talking about Warner Griffith?" he said in amazement.

"That's what Mr. Burger would like to know," Perry said. "He wondered if Mr. Griffith had any connection with the case Mr. Sampson has been investigating. That case involves a man named Thompkins. Or rather, Thompson."

Daniel shook his head. "I'm sorry, Mr. Mason. I have no idea what kind of connection there could be. And I'm sure Griffith's wife wouldn't be any help." This he spoke dryly. Both he and Perry remembered all too well how Linda Griffith had tried her darnedest to incriminate Daniel in order to free her husband of suspicion in the murder of Rose Calvert.

"I'm sure she wouldn't," Perry agreed. "Oh, I don't suppose you ever met Ned Thompson, did you?"

"I'm afraid I don't even know who he is," Daniel said.

"He was a paint manufacturer," Perry explained. "He's dead now—murdered. But even six years later, his death is affecting people far and wide, from his old business partner Amory Fallon to Lieutenant Anderson of the Homicide department."

"Amory Fallon I've heard of," Daniel said, "but I don't have much reason to come in contact with paint manufacturers."

"That's understandable," Perry said. "Perhaps Warner Griffith doesn't have anything to do with this case at all, but Mr. Burger felt we needed to look into the possibility anyway.

"Well, thank you for your time, Daniel. If you think of anything that might be important, you'll be sure to call me, won't you?"

"Of course," Daniel assured him. "After what you did for me, Mr. Mason, you can always count on my help, if I can give it."

He was baffled as he hung up the phone. This seemed to be a day for ghosts to come out of everyone's pasts—Ned Thompson for Amory Fallon and Warner Griffith for him. And if Griffith actually was involved in this Thompson mess somehow, there was the chance that it would become Daniel's problem somewhere along the way.

Concerned, Daniel got up and headed out of the office. Maybe he should check Griffith's old files, currently stored in a back room. Something important might jump out at him.

xxxx

"Mr. Griffith?"

Hamilton stood on the front porch, greeting the vaguely familiar man who opened the door. Warner Griffith stared, recognizing the district attorney, and frowned slightly as he gripped the edge of the doorframe.

"Mr. Burger," he said, keeping his voice guarded. "Is there something I can do for you?"

"I'm not sure, Mr. Griffith." Hamilton held up a piece of paper. "Can you tell me if you wrote this? I found it among my assistant district attorney Gregory Sampson's papers."

Griffith leaned over to read the angry words of the threatening note. His visage darkened into a storm cloud.

"Yes, Mr. Burger, I wrote that." He straightened. "I figured you'd be coming to me sooner or later about it. So he told you, did he?"

"He wrote me a letter, to be opened if he passed away." Hamilton's eyes narrowed. "Even though he isn't dead, there's a lot of questions surrounding what happened to him. Including why he slipped into unconsciousness whispering your name, Mr. Griffith. I looked through his files and found this note, as well as the letter to me that explained what happened with your son Jason."

"If there was any justice in the world, he'd be kicked out of office," Griffith snarled. "If he lives at all."

"He was a young, foolish kid. He's tried to turn his life completely around since then. And I don't know if you know this, Mr. Griffith, but he's still looking for your son. All these years later, he hasn't given up and he hasn't stopped trying to make restitution for his mistake." Hamilton searched Warner's eyes, unsure of what to make of him.

Something flickered within those eyes, perhaps surprise or guilt. "I don't need him to look for Jason." Griffith passed a hand over his eyes, suddenly looking tired. "Mr. Burger, I know I wrote in that note that I'd kill that Sampson, but I was speaking in anger. You're already familiar with the fact that I have a bad temper. And I hate him; I won't deny that. But I don't want him dead." He looked back to Hamilton. "He'd suffer worse if he stayed alive."

Hamilton drew a deep breath. "Mr. Griffith, with all due respect, there's been enough suffering on everyone's parts, yours included. And I need to ask you: Have you ever had any connection with a man named Thompson?"

Again Griffith's eyes flickered, this time with clear nervousness. "That's a mighty common name, Mr. Burger."

"Alright then. _Ned_ Thompson. That's not as common."

"Nope," Griffith answered, much too quickly. "I don't know any Ned Thompson. Never met him, never heard of him."

Hamilton's gaze bored into Griffith's. "Gregory Sampson is dying in a hospital room because of this Thompson case he's been investigating. And right before he lost consciousness, he said your name. I'll ask you again—did you have anything to do with Ned Thompson or with the investigation of the death of the assassin Harvey Harlen?"

Griffith wavered, but then set his jaw. "No, Sir." His eyes narrowed. "And this is my private property, not a court of law. I'll thank you to leave right now, Mr. Burger. If you want to talk with me again, you'll need better evidence than a delirious, reckless _boy_ mumbling my name."

Hamilton's patience was swiftly unraveling. He should have let it go there, he realized in retrospect. But he could not.

"He isn't a boy any longer, Mr. Griffith," he countered. "Gregory Sampson is a man, a good man fighting for justice and righteousness. And whether you'll accept it or not, he feels terrible about what happened with your son. He's tried to reach out to you more than once, but you refuse to have anything to do with him or his honest longing to help mend your family.

"You have every right to be angry about what happened to Jason when he was in college. But if I find out you've taken that anger and are using it to abuse the law in whatever way, you'll end up without a leg to stand on. I could already have you thrown in jail for threatening an assistant district attorney!" Hamilton waved the paper in Griffith's face.

Griffith's eyes flashed as he batted it away. "You're just siding with him, against me. You protect your own. Well, I'll see to it that if you try to come against me, his reputation will be torn up in shreds. If he ever wakes up from that coma of his, he'll find that everyone hates him for the hypocrite he is!"

Hamilton opened his mouth to scream back, but stopped. What was he _doing?_ He was making a complete spectacle of himself. The neighbors on other side of the house were peering out their windows, wide-eyed at the commotion on the Griffith porch.

Mentally he chastised himself. He had gotten a lot better about controlling his temper and his impulses through the years, but now and then the dam still broke. After everything that had happened today, hearing Sampson being unfairly threatened when he could not even defend himself had annihilated the remaining strands of Hamilton's tolerance.

But this was not helping Sampson. It might even hurt him in the end.

Hamilton stepped back, lowering the hand holding the paper—and lowering his voice as well. "Gregory Sampson isn't a hypocrite, Mr. Griffith," he said. "No one punishes him more for what happened to Jason than he does himself. But I know it's pointless to try to explain that to you.

"Sampson believes in the good people of Los Angeles County. And I do too. Even if you try to tear down his reputation, they'll see through your efforts to your hatred and pain. They'll know that's why you're trying to destroy him. And they'll also see that he's in no danger of losing his job due to a stupid mistake he made over fifteen years ago. They didn't know him then, but they know him now. They've seen what he is. They'll continue to believe in him, just as he does in them.

"Goodnight, Mr. Griffith." Hamilton spun around, heading down the steps. He could feel Warner Griffith's eyes focused on his back as he went.

"Just wait, Mr. Burger," the man growled in the night. "Just wait and see."

Hamilton was chilled. Yes, he was afraid he _would_ see. And he was afraid of the wreckage that would ensue if he did.

"Come on, Sampson," he whispered. He unlocked his car, climbing into the driver's seat. "You have to pull through this, for more reasons than one."

xxxx

If there was one thing Sampson had always been, it was a fighter. Even now, as he lay teetering between life and death, he was attacking Death with nails, teeth, and sheer force of will.

He would _not_ die. There was too much for him to do, too much he had left undone.

Too many people he would leave behind. He would miss them in any case, but he also knew they would miss and mourn him. Perhaps not his parents so much; they were more concerned with wealth and reputation, as they had always been. But Mr. Burger and Victor and the other people he looked up to and admired would be grief-stricken.

"Hi."

He looked up with a jerk. A uniformed police officer was standing by his bedside, in the company of another man.

He did not know the other man, but the police officer he had met.

"Officer Otto Norden," he gasped. "You . . . you're dead."

Otto chuckled ruefully. "Unfortunately, yes. I still wish I wasn't. But it does allow me to talk with you for a bit. And this man wants to talk with you too. May I present Ned Thompson."

Sampson stared. "You're the one behind all of the commotion," he exclaimed.

Ned nodded. "I wish that wasn't true," he sighed. "As if what I did to Amory in life wasn't bad enough, now he's in trouble from the mess I left behind when I was killed."

"But you can solve all of these problems now, can't you?" Sampson tried to rise off the bed, but could not. "You can tell me where J.K. Stratton is and who has the information that was stolen from your knight statue!"

"I wish I could," Ned frowned. "I don't know the answers."

Otto smiled sadly. "Being dead doesn't mean that suddenly everything is revealed."

"No, I wouldn't think so," Sampson returned. "But what about problems directly involving the deceased? Shouldn't they know the solutions?"

"Sometimes," Otto said. "In this case, no."

"But the reason for that is that I've been focusing my time and energy on trying to watch out for Amory and Edith," Ned said. He looked desperately into Sampson's eyes. "You can take a message back to them, can't you? I haven't been able to talk to them. I don't know if it's because there's still a barrier between us or what."

Sampson was stunned. "Why . . . yes, of course I can," he said. "If I'm going back, I mean."

"You're going back," Otto said firmly. "You haven't even crossed over. You've seen to that."

"But I'm talking to both of you," Sampson protested. "How . . ."

"It's just because death is close," Otto said. "Not because it's taken you; it hasn't."

Sampson leaned back. "I see."

"Please." Ned reached for him, but he could only hold on for a split-second. "Tell Amory he's still in grave danger. Virginia is a bad penny. I used to know her, before . . . well, anyway. Tell him. He won't be safe as long as she's around. Neither will Edith."

"Virginia," Sampson repeated in utter confusion.

"He'll know who you mean, unfortunately," Ned sighed. "They've met."

"Alright," Sampson nodded. "I'll tell him as soon as I can."

For the first time, Ned relaxed. "Thank you," he breathed.

Otto smiled. "Take care," he said.

Then they were gone and Sampson was left to himself, again in the dark oblivion with his thoughts.

"Virginia," he whispered to the nothingness around him. "Who on Earth is she?"


	16. Revelations

**Chapter Sixteen**

_Wham._

Steve slammed his hand on his desk in frustration. Sergeant Nichols, writing in his notepad, jumped a mile. "Lieutenant, what's wrong?" he gasped.

Steve let out a weary sigh. "I'm sorry, Sergeant. But that's exactly the problem—I don't _know_ what's wrong." He gazed blankly across his office. "I arrested Julian Royal based on what that hitman told me. And Royal hasn't even denied the charges. He's given us everything we want in the way of explanations and motivations, yet he's still vague on other things."

Nichols frowned but nodded. "I did notice how he seemed to flounder when you asked him about the details of the criminal organization that Ned Thompson got mixed up with. How do you figure it?"

Steve got up, starting to pace the room. "I keep having this nagging feeling that Royal is a plant, a conveniently placed figurehead. And then I start thinking about how he's a businessman, and Stratton is a businessman, and I wonder if they're both under the thumbs of the real masterminds behind all of this insanity."

Nichols considered it and regarded Steve in bewilderment. "But Royal could go to the execution chamber for ordering Mr. Sampson's death. Would he really be more afraid of these masterminds than of that?"

"These people have strange priorities," Steve said. "Yes, it's possible. I might even say probable." He stopped pacing by the map and leaned against the wall with one hand. "They might have offered him an alternative worse than a quick death. And he might still be hoping that we'll get to the bottom of things before he's convicted."

"Are you going to talk to him and try to convince him to spill the beans?" Nichols asked.

"Oh yeah." Steve headed for the door. "And I'm going to tell Lieutenant Tragg too. Whether or not I'm right, we can't take the chance on waiting to act on some things while I try to find out."

Nichols stood, still confused. "What are you talking about, Lieutenant?"

"Sampson, Sergeant," Steve retorted in worried impatience. "The press got the story that he's still alive. And if we don't have the real instigator in his planned death . . ."

"Then that real one actually might try again and hire a new assassin," Nichols finished, sickened.

"Right." Steve gave a curt nod and hastened out the door.

xxxx

Lieutenant Tragg was both highly interested and deeply concerned in Steve's ideas. And, as Steve had hoped, he was more than willing to act immediately and prepare additional police guards at the hospital while Steve questioned Royal.

"Until we know whether Sampson's injuries are fatal, the doctors have forbidden him to be moved," Tragg told him. "Otherwise we'd spirit him right out of that hospital and somewhere else."

"I understand," Steve nodded. "I hope I'm wrong, Lieutenant. I hope to God I'm wrong. But I'm afraid I'm not."

"You should always pay attention to those gut feelings, Drumm," Tragg said. "They're right a lot of the time. Almost eerily so."

Steve had been finding that was true. And as Royal was brought to the interrogation room, the tense look he gave the officers did not ease Steve's mind any.

"What am I doing here again, Lieutenant?" he queried, sitting down at the plain wooden table. "I thought I'd already given you all the information you required."

"There were still some things you didn't entirely answer, Mr. Royal," Steve replied. "Such as what this mysterious criminal organization is really all about."

"I'm not one of the higher-ups," Royal protested. "I explained that! I was given the order to see that Mr. Sampson was eliminated. And I had it carried out, just as I was directed to."

"But you should still know something about their operations, Mr. Royal," Steve said. "Instead, about the only thing we got out of you on that subject was, and I quote, 'Oh, you know; they handle smuggling, blackmail, and the like.' Well, no, I didn't know, and as far as I'm concerned, I still _don't_ know!" He leaned forward, placing his hands on the desk. "Is that really the truth, Mr. Royal? Or is it just what you think is the truth? What you thought would make a good answer?"

Royal rocked back. "Lieutenant, I have no idea what you're talking about." But he wrung his hands in obvious anxiety. He looked to the door, seeking the way out.

"What kind of pressure have they put on you?" Steve persisted. "What could make you confess to a crime you didn't commit?"

"Nothing," Royal shot back. "I did commit it! I _did!_" He sprang to his feet, slamming his palms on the table. "I hired that man to see that Mr. Sampson was gutted with that letter-opener!"

Steve straightened. "Then Mr. Royal, I _know_ you're lying."

Sweat was breaking out across Royal's forehead. "You couldn't possibly know," he snarled. "You should know just the opposite. What sort of incompetent policeman are you?!"

"_Mr._ Royal." Steve's eyes narrowed. "The murderer wasn't planning to stab Sampson with that letter-opener. _No one_ gave him the order to do that. He didn't even know he'd need to use it! He was planning to kill Sampson with his gun and make it look like a common burglary."

The color drained from Royal's face. He swayed, sinking back into the chair. "Then . . ."

"Then I suggest you start talking," Steve snapped. "If you didn't have anything to do with the attempt on Sampson's life, you'll still be responsible if there's another one! Now that the press knows he's alive, he's in danger again."

"Oh no." Royal leaned forward, running his fingers into his hair. "I didn't want anyone to be hurt. I was trying to stop it from happening. . . ." His voice cracked.

Steve drew a deep breath, willing himself to control his temper. "Did they threaten someone you love?" he inquired. "Will they kill your family if you don't play ball?"

"My grandchildren." Royal looked up at Steve in agony. "Please, Lieutenant, can't you understand? I've lived a good life. It wouldn't matter so much to me if I had been threatened. But their little lives have just barely started. How could I live with myself if I didn't do everything in my power to keep them safe?"

Steve's eyes flickered. "You should have come to us," he said quietly.

"They said not to," Royal replied, utterly miserable. "They said my youngest grandson would be killed if I did. I believed them, Lieutenant. I still believe them! They have connections. No doubt several of your officers are on their payroll!"

"That could be," Steve acknowledged. "But most of us aren't." He sat down. "Now, Mr. Royal, let's start over. Please, tell me everything you know. Tell me the truth."

Royal shifted in discomfort, still clearly conflicted.

"We'll protect your family with every resource we have," Steve insisted. "And we'll call in the FBI if we have to. But _please_, Mr. Royal—your family members aren't the only ones in danger. Gregory Sampson doesn't deserve to die any more than your family does." His voice lowered. "He's probably close to your son's age."

That reached Julian Royal at last. He looked down, guilt spread across his features, and slowly nodded. "Alright, Lieutenant. I'll tell what I know. But I don't know if it will even help you."

"Maybe not, but it must be important or your family wouldn't have been threatened," Steve pointed out.

"You're right, of course," Royal said.

xxxx

Daniel leaned back in exhaustion. He had been going through Warner Griffith's files for the past couple of hours. And he still had not finished his PowerPoint presentation for the meeting in the morning. Sleep was starting to look unlikely.

He frowned. Maybe there was nothing here that would help Mr. Mason. But even though he wanted to do this to offer his help, he was also still concerned about what Griffith's involvement could mean for him personally. Warner Griffith was the last person he wanted to see rise from the shadows to torment him. If there was anything relevant in these old files, he needed to find it.

It was a very draining exercise. Daniel did not like to dwell on the past, preferring to focus on the present and look ahead to the future. But going through all of these items was dredging up painful, unpleasant memories.

Warner Griffith had never been a friend of Daniel's. When they had first met, he had seemed polite and amiable, but Daniel had sensed an undercurrent of dislike. That undercurrent had persisted during their disagreements at the company board meetings. It had utterly spilled over once Griffith had been fired from the board of directors and had set about beginning his personal war with Daniel over control of Cal-Texas Explorations. He had tried all manner of ways to smear Daniel's name and reputation through lies and manipulations and false evidence. It had been a relief when his scheme had come out and he had been placed in prison.

About the only thing he _hadn't_ done was to frame Daniel for murder. His wife had seen to that. Daniel still wasn't sure if Griffith had actually believed Daniel capable of such an act or if he had announced his supposed belief in court just to make Daniel look even worse. What Daniel was quite sure of was that if he had been convicted and executed, Griffith would have gone and danced on his grave.

He shuddered. Griffith was a character, to say the least. It was true that he had admitted in court that he had not behaved like a gentleman, but Daniel wondered if it had just been a desperate attempt to save face. Daniel did not hold a grudge, yet naturally after what had been done, he was alert and on edge. It seemed to him that if Griffith had truly regretted his actions, he would have tried to apologize. There had been no word from him either during his prison sentence or following his release.

The next file Daniel pulled out made him blink in surprise. "Virginia," he read on the label. No more, no less.

He flipped it open and found himself greeted by a photograph of a beautiful, innocent blonde woman. And aside from that photograph, the folder was empty.

"What in Heaven's name?" he muttered.

She looked familiar, too. Where could he have seen her before? Around the company building? At Griffith's house? Somewhere else?

Griffith had a weakness for pretty young women, Daniel knew that much. His current wife, Linda, was his second, whom he had married following a bitter divorce. And his attention had sometimes strayed after that marriage. At least, it certainly seemed that way. Daniel wouldn't be surprised if Griffith had been romantically involved with the deceased Rose Calvert, though Griffith had never confirmed it. This Virginia could have been another object of his affections.

In any case, it was strange for the picture to be among Griffith's files, unless Virginia had somehow been involved with his work. Perhaps Daniel should show that photograph to Perry for the simple fact of how unusual and out-of-place it seemed.

He set it aside and pawed through the rest of the box. By now he was almost finished; he might as well see the rest of the contents.

Twenty minutes later he rocked back in defeat. Unless he had missed something, the only odd thing was the picture of Virginia.

Well, that and the folder Griffith had been collecting of every business decision Daniel had made that Griffith did not like. Some of those decisions Griffith had actively used against Daniel in his attempts to make it seem that Daniel had been cheating the company. Others he had decided not to use, presumably either because he thought they would not be as effective or because he had just wanted to look at them in privacy to fuel his anger and frustration.

Daniel sighed and got up, swiping the Virginia folder off the table as he went. He would tentatively guess that Perry was still awake and would want to know of his findings right now instead of in the morning. So, he would call Perry and then try to get back to his PowerPoint presentation.

And ten to one, Miss Eastman would find him slumped back in his chair in the morning, sound asleep in front of the laptop monitor.

Hopefully his project would be done by the time that happened.

xxxx

Edith sat on the bed, watching as Amory nervously paced the room. His untied tie swung back and forth as he moved, but he made no attempt to remove it.

"Amory, please come to bed," she implored. "It's been such a long day and you're so exhausted."

"I just can't put my finger on anything lately!" Amory exclaimed, only half-listening to her. "Virginia seemed so strange in spite of her friendliness. And something didn't seem right about Miss Ames' statement to the police, either!" He ran his fingers into his already-disastrous hair.

"You'll think better after you've slept." Edith got up, crossing the room to intercept his latest pace. "You were supposed to take it easy anyway, with that head injury, and instead you've been doing so much all day."

"There's too much going on to even think of taking it easy," Amory retorted.

Edith laid a gentle hand on his shoulder. "You'll never solve anything if you can't settle down long enough to fully think it all through. Oh Amory. . . ." She sighed, resting against his side. "I've been so worried about you lately. You were overworking yourself as it was, and now all of these horrible things have been blowing up in your face."

Amory sighed too. "I just don't know what to do," he said quietly. "There's so much on the line—your life, mine, Miss Ames'. . . . Not to mention Lieutenant Anderson's and this Mr. Sampson's. And God knows who else! Or _what_ else. Maybe the company is in danger, too. It wouldn't surprise me, at least." He finally drew his arms around her. "If you weren't here, Edith, I know I'd go completely out of my mind."

"Now, don't talk like that," she soothed. "I'll always be here."

"Not if _they_ have anything to say about it." Amory's voice was filled with bitterness, but Edith could hear the desperation just under the surface.

"Alright," she said at last. "If you can't sleep, how about talking it out for a while? You must have some idea of what bothered you about Miss Ames' statement, even if you're not sure _why_ it bothered you."

Amory thought about that. "Well, aside from how preposterous it sounds to have been attacked by ninjas, there was the whole thing about how she got away from them. It seemed . . . I don't know, too easy, too simple. If those men actually were trained as ninjas, I just can't feature them being so stupid as to lose track of her."

Edith frowned but nodded. "Do you think she wasn't telling the truth?"

"Oh, I don't know." Amory took several steps ahead. "I was betrayed by so many people in the company that I was honestly surprised she wasn't mixed up in any of it. But I guess if she blamed me for Nickols going to prison or some other nonsense like that, maybe she'd . . ." He trailed off. "No, it just sounds too ridiculous."

"Well, if she wasn't lying, what does that leave?" Edith prompted.

"That they let her go," Amory returned. "Which doesn't make that much more sense, really. Why go to all that trouble just to release her?"

"Maybe they just wanted to scare her for a while?" Edith followed him, still hoping she could convince him to get into the bed.

"Maybe," Amory said. "Or maybe Virginia was working with them and they just let Miss Ames fall into Virginia's hands. She could be trying to infiltrate, to make us think she's a friend when she isn't."

"To do what?" Edith wondered.

Amory opened his mouth then closed it, helplessly shaking his head. "I don't know!"

Edith laid her hands on his upper arms from behind. "Come to bed, Amory," she pleaded again. "I won't be able to sleep until I know you're at least trying to sleep too."

That was the one card she could play that would get Amory to consent. He would not want to be the cause of keeping Edith up so late.

And, as she had hoped, he finally nodded. "Alright. Lie down and I'll be right there."

Several minutes later he had changed into his pajamas and was wearily sinking next to her under the thick comforter quilt. "This won't work," he mumbled. "I'm not going to be able to sleep."

"We'll see," Edith replied.

But she was afraid that it was indeed true. There had been many nights when Amory had been disturbed by one thing or another and had lain awake long into the night, staring at the ceiling. He did not like taking sleeping pills, and the few times he had tried, they had not seemed to do much good either.

"I just need to find an answer, any answer," he mumbled. "Well . . . any _right_ answer."

"You will, Amory," Edith replied. "Or if you don't, Lieutenant Anderson and his friends will."

Amory fell silent, not wanting to disturb her own rest. But even as she started to sink into a welcome doze, she could sense that he was still awake.

_Oh Amory,_ she thought sadly, _if only you could be at peace._

xxxx

By contrast, Andy was already fast asleep. Jimmy, still awake in the living room area of the suite, was both amused and relieved. Andy had always been able to fall asleep quickly, especially after long and taxing days. And this had certainly been one such day.

When the phone rang without warning Jimmy snapped it up immediately, not wanting the noise to disturb his cousin. "Hello?"

"Hello, Jimmy," Lieutenant Tragg said. "Is Andy asleep?"

"Yes, he is," Jimmy frowned. "What is it, Lieutenant? Is something wrong?"

Tragg sighed. "Well, I've just been talking with Lieutenant Drumm. He kept feeling that Julian Royal wasn't telling the truth when he made his confession. So he's been down in the interrogation room, talking with him. Turns out his suspicions were right. Royal didn't order the assassination on Sampson."

Jimmy's stomach dropped. "We just thought we had someone important!" he cried. "And if the real guy is still loose . . ."

"Yeah, we know," Tragg grunted. "Extra security has already been order at the hospital.

"Meanwhile, Royal told Steve everything he knows. These people forced him to make a false confession or his grandkids would be killed. Oh, this ring is a real piece of work."

Jimmy could hear the utter disgust and repulsion in Tragg's voice. And he was feeling it himself. "Did he give any names?" he demanded.

"He doesn't know who's out for Sampson's blood, unfortunately," Tragg sighed. "But he said he knew that Harvey Harlen was definitely the man killed in the shootout with the police. Harlen was dispatched to kill Ned Thompson, but ended up dead himself first."

"Well, that's good to know, but it's nothing the police haven't already speculated," Jimmy said.

"There's more," Tragg told him. "And this is what I really called to tell you. Royal said that whoever ordered the hit on Sampson . . . has also ordered one on Andy."

Suddenly Jimmy felt dizzy. It was unreal. It had to be some kind of nightmare from which he could awaken. But he gripped the phone. He knew he was awake. And he knew they had already been facing the possibility that Andy's life was still in danger. This was just the horrible confirmation of it.

"Are you sure he's telling the truth?" he asked at last.

"We're afraid so," Tragg said. "Even if we have doubts, we're not taking any chances. And we're not going to assume that they couldn't know where you've moved. I'm coming out there with some of my men."

Jimmy frowned in worry. "What if they're waiting for that and they follow you?"

"We've thought about that. We're taking every possible precaution. And none of us will be in uniform.

"How are the Fallons? We have to figure that Amory is in danger too, what with his resemblance to Andy and all."

"I think they're asleep," Jimmy said. "Or Mrs. Fallon anyway. I'll check."

"Good. You do that, and we'll be out as soon as we possibly can."

Jimmy was reeling as he hung up. He stumbled up from the couch, heading for the connecting door that bridged theirs and the Fallons' room in this new hotel.

If he had thought sleep would be hard for him to catch before, it would be impossible now.

How could he possibly sleep knowing a hitman could be en route right now to kill Andy?

xxxx

Victor Chamberlin leaned forward in the chair, clasping his hands as he gazed at the floor of the hospital room. He had been here since Hamilton had left, keeping true to his vow to stay with Sampson.

The doctor had not been crazy about it initially; he also did not like Hamilton's insistence on keeping a police officer right in the room as well as outside. But Chamberlin had convinced him that he was a better companion than Sampson's family, were they to be found and come back. Sampson did not get along with his family and their presence could badly stress him. By contrast, Chamberlin was probably Sampson's closest friend. He would be welcome.

He had not heard back from Mr. Burger since his departure. And he had not needed to call Mr. Burger, either. He was still not sure if that was good or bad. Sampson was not worse, but he was also not better.

"I know you're fighting, Gregory," he said quietly. "You won't give up until you're pronounced dead." And probably not even then. "But I can't help wishing you could give me some sign that you're going to be alright."

". . . Is . . . this enough of one?"

He nearly fell out of the chair. Instead he immediately shot upright, staring in awe and amazement at his friend. Sampson was lying semi-conscious, weary but triumphant, as he weakly smiled.

"Gregory!" Chamberlin exclaimed. He wanted to fully accept this as the proof, but he still worried. There had been tales of people who had awakened from comatose states only to die soon after.

"I'll be fine," Sampson told him. He gazed into the distance. "I saw Officer Norden. He told me I'll recover."

"Officer Norden?" Chamberlin stood, bewildered. "Why would you see him?"

"He was working with Ned Thompson," Sampson mumbled. Suddenly snapping to, he reached out and grabbed Chamberlin's arm. "I have a message I need to relay to Amory Fallon. It's urgent."

"He's probably sleeping right now," Chamberlin said slowly, fighting off further confusion.

"Then I'll tell you and you can tell him in the morning," Sampson replied. "Tell him Ned Thompson says to stay away from a woman named Virginia. He said Mr. Fallon will already know who I mean."

"I'll tell him," Chamberlin promised.

He was not sure whether to think that Sampson had been having delusions or not. It was so precise, so specific, that it seemed unlikely to be just that.

He tried to smile, longing to believe in the other part of Sampson's message—what Officer Norden had said. "But as far as telling him in the morning . . . well, you've lost track of time." He nodded to the window, where the first light of dawn was breaking. "It's morning now."

Sampson followed his gaze. "So it is." His eyes glittered at the sight. "I've been unconscious for much too long."

"That," Chamberlin replied, "is an understatement." Deciding to take a leap of faith, he laid a hand on Sampson's shoulder. "Welcome back."

Sampson smiled. "I felt you'd worried long enough."

"I have," said Chamberlin. "We all have." He looked to the telephone. "And now I have a call to make."

He gave thanks that it would be a call of good and not ill news.


	17. Snipers

**Notes: To Megan—Thank you so much again for your kind words (and inspiring another chapter to get written)! I'm very touched and honored that this story means so much to you. If I can just write up to a certain plot twist, I think the rest of the chapters will come quickly again. Meanwhile, yes, feel free to print up the other author's note and whatever else you might feel like.**

**Chapter Seventeen**

The next hours were a whirlwind of activity.

Lieutenant Tragg and a squad of his men set up shop both in and around the connecting hotel suites where the Anderson cousins and Amory and Edith were staying. Other police officers staked out Andy's house, Jimmy's and Mrs. Norden's apartments, the Fallon home, and Fallon Paints. Miss Ames was also still under police guard.

Hamilton, overjoyed by the news of Sampson's regained consciousness, went to see and talk with him in between court cases. Sampson was relieved to see him, especially in the wake of a telegram from his father that said they could not get back and inquired after their son's current condition. Hamilton was furious, although he tried to hold it back around Sampson.

And Daniel arrived at the Brent building, exhausted from preparing and giving his presentation, to show Perry what he had found in Griffith's files.

"Virginia?" Perry stared at the photograph.

"Yes, Mr. Mason." Daniel shook his head, baffled. "That was the only thing I found that seemed out of place. I don't understand it at all, but I thought I should bring it for you to see."

"Well, thank you, Mr. Conway." Perry frowned, setting it down on his desk. "I realize it must have been an inconvenience for you, to go through all of those old files."

"Not at all. I wanted to know myself if there was anything that needed to be found. And wouldn't you know it, I'm still not sure." Daniel folded his arms. "I see no reason for the photograph or the girl to be a concern, other than the fact that it was just so mysterious for this picture to be where it was."

Della leaned over, peering at the picture. "Oh, she looks so sweet," she objected. "How could she possibly be the cause of anyone's troubles?"

"You know as well as I do, Della, that sweetness sometimes only goes skin-deep," Perry returned.

Daniel raised a tired eyebrow. "Are you saying it does mean something to you, Mr. Mason? Miss Street?"

"Vaguely," Perry nodded. "Mr. Burger, the district attorney, filled us in on some of the latest developments in the case. There's a girl named Virginia claiming to be part of a family whose youngest member is the godson of Mr. Burger. Tonight, she arrived just in time to rescue Amory Fallon's secretary from a mysterious group of abducting ninjas."

"What?" Daniel had to laugh. "Mr. Mason, it all sounds so ridiculous."

"I know." Perry's expression did not lighten. "Unfortunately, this entire case is no laughing matter. Several people involved are still in danger of their very lives."

Daniel sobered. "So I'm guessing the next step is to show that photograph to this family and the secretary and see if they recognize her."

"Yes." Perry looked to Della. "Get Mr. Burger on the phone, will you, Della?"

"Of course." Della gathered her notepads and hurried out of the room. Daniel watched her depart before looking back to Perry.

"And if it is the same girl, Mr. Mason, what then?"

Perry leaned back with a sigh. "Then, Mr. Conway, it will be time for someone to pay Warner Griffith a visit."

xxxx

Several positive identifications later, Lieutenant Drumm went out to the Griffith home, photograph in hand. When the door was opened by Linda Griffith, he immediately drew out his badge.

"Hello, Mrs. Griffith," he greeted. "I'm Lieutenant Drumm, Homicide. Is your husband home?"

Linda stiffened, gripping the doorframe. "No, he isn't," she retorted. "Why is the Homicide division calling on my husband this time? Has someone else died?"

"This time we're trying to prevent a death. Or several. Do you know where your husband is or when he'll be back?"

"No to both." Linda gripped her arms. "He's been looking for a job. It's never easy for a former convict to find something decent."

Steve did not want to get into a discussion over that. Hesitating a moment, he opened the folder and revealed the picture. "Mrs. Griffith, have you ever seen this girl before?"

Again Linda went rigid, but this time fire flashed in her eyes. "No, Lieutenant. And if you're going to say my husband had something to do with her, you're wrong. His attention hasn't strayed from me since he got out of prison."

"He would have known this girl before he went to prison," Steve replied. "Mrs. Griffith . . ."

"Then _yes,_ I saw her around a few times," Linda snapped. "But I swear I didn't know who she was. Warner wouldn't tell me. He just insisted she had something to do with his business and that was all. Maybe it was true, maybe it wasn't, but it was so long ago. Why do you suddenly need to find her now?"

"We don't," Steve grunted. "We know where she lives—although she isn't home right now. What I'm trying to establish is what her purpose is in coming back to Los Angeles."

"I assure you I don't know," Linda said. She reached for the door. "If that's all, Lieutenant . . ."

"Just a couple of quick questions. When you talk about your husband's business, do you mean he meant that the girl worked for Cal-Texas? Or that she was hired by Mr. Griffith for the same kind of dirty work that Rose Calvert did?"

"I don't know what he meant. But when I saw her, it was both before and after he was fired from Cal-Texas."

Steve made a note of that. "Her name is Virginia. Do you ever remember Mr. Griffith talking about someone by that name?"

Linda paused. "Maybe once on the phone. But I still don't understand the relevancy. When I heard him on the phone with her, it had something to do with his son."

Now Steve froze. "His son?!"

"Yes, from his first marriage. Jason's been missing for over fifteen years. Virginia thought she might have seen him and Warner was talking to her about it. I had the impression that he had hired her to look for Jason."

"Then why would he say that the girl had to do with his business?"

Linda shook her head. "I really don't know, Lieutenant. You'll have to come back later and see if you can catch Warner. He might be back by evening. _Late_ evening."

"I'll do that," Steve promised. He closed his notebook and stepped back. "Thank you, Mrs. Griffith."

xxxx

"Sergeant Brice?"

Brice looked up at the sound of Officer Reed's voice. He and Officer Malloy were still concealed behind a bush at Andy's house, both of them visibly concerned. Brice, who was leading the stakeout on the building, slipped closer to them. "What is it?"

Reed shifted uncomfortably. "It's just that this case has been taking so many ups and downs lately," he said. "Do you really think some assassin is going to show up here, at Lieutenant Anderson's house, to try to kill him?"

"If he thinks the police don't know about it, he might," Brice replied. "You know we have to check up on all possible reports like this, Officer Reed."

"I know, but it just seems like if the guy's really smart, he'd know that Lieutenant Anderson wouldn't even be here." Reed sighed, both restless and in discomfort from holding his position for so long. Malloy gave him a sympathetic look.

"He should know," Brice agreed. "If he showed up, it would probably mainly be just to make sure. And if he's a professional, we might not even know when he comes. He could just drive past without stopping."

"And if he's an amateur, he might actually try breaking in the house," Malloy spoke up.

Brice nodded. "He might. Although I can hardly believe that they would hire an amateur."

A gunshot sailed past, narrowly missing him. He tensed, drawing his rifle. Reed and Malloy did likewise, as did the other members of the squad.

"And what do you call that?" Malloy said grimly.

"The work of either a distracter or a fool," Brice exclaimed.

More gunfire followed, from several directions at once. The police hit the ground and concealed themselves around the house, desperate as they searched for the snipers.

"There!" Reed suddenly announced, pointing towards the next house's balcony. The hazy sunlight caught the glint off the end of a rifle trained on them.

Even as he pointed, the man fired. A police sniper fired back, hitting his mark. The gun dropped as the enemy shooter crashed to the floor of the balcony.

"Who lives there, Sergeant?" the police sniper asked.

"The Thomases," Brice said. "They're on vacation." He straightened, tense, waiting for more gunfire from wherever else it had been coming. When none came, Brice hastened across the yard and to the other property.

How had this happened? They had been staked out here for hours. Did that mean the sniper had been in wait inside the Thomases' house for hours, arriving before the police? That did not even make sense! If the sniper had come first, surely he had known that Andy was not at home. What was the purpose behind this attack?

Suddenly gunfire erupted again, forcing Brice to dive for cover on the grass. He clutched his weapon, lying still as the sounds persisted.

He was most unused to commanding missions such as this. He felt most comfortable as the partner, while a Lieutenant took charge. But with Tragg and Steve both occupied, and Andy still recovering, Brice had wanted to do all he could to pitch in and help. Hence, he had volunteered to lead the squad on stakeout here.

He had never expected anything such as this. He had assumed that there would be no attack at all, or that if anyone showed up, they would see the vacant house and do nothing. Instead everything was going completely contrary.

Reed was on the radio now, calling for backup. "We're under attack from sniper fire in several directions," he exclaimed urgently. "Sergeant Brice has been pinned down at the house next-door. One sniper has been spotted in a tree at the house in back of Lieutenant Anderson's. The other snipers' positions are unknown."

The radio crackled to life, but there was too much noise for Brice to distinguish the reply. At last it quieted again and he slowly rose, the rifle clutched in his hand.

He made it to the porch but then stopped, frowning more. For all he knew, when he opened the front door he could be greeted by a barrage. Maybe the sniper on the balcony wasn't the only one nesting here.

Cautiously he reached for the knob and turned it, before diving to the side to wait. The door swung open, but nothing else happened. He pointed his rifle into the darkness. "This is the police!" he announced. When there was still silence, he slowly advanced to peer into the room. He was met by only emptiness and sheet-covered furniture.

Reed appeared behind him, gun in hand. "I'll back you up, Sarge," he said.

Brice nodded, moving into the living room. Everything remained eerily quiet. He proceeded farther, aware of Reed's footsteps close behind him. They were both tense, expecting something to happen that was not happening, expecting someone to jump out who was not jumping out, but neither felt ready to let down his guard. Eventually they made their way upstairs and to the balcony doors without incident.

"They might open fire as soon as we go outside to get to the body," Brice warned. "We'll have to stay low."

Reed nodded. "I'm ready."

Brice opened one of the doors slowly, inching out onto the balcony. He dove down, keeping close to the wooden floor as he moved towards the fallen sniper. Nothing happened.

He reached out, taking hold of the limp wrist. As he had expected, there was no pulse. He knelt on the wooden beams, turning the sniper onto his back. He did not recognize the character. Digging into the other's pockets, he searched for some form of identification.

Reed bent down, leaning on his gun. "Anything?"

"Nothing," Brice sighed. "Maybe the fingerprint crew will have some luck."

"If they can ever get in here around the chaos," Reed said.

Brice lifted the sniper's right hand out of idle curiosity. But then he stiffened.

Reed blinked in surprise. "What is it, Sarge?"

Brice held up the man's hand. "This man's skin is badly scarred on each finger. His fingerprints have been burned off!"

Reed's jaw dropped. He grabbed the opposite hand. "It's the same here," he reported. "Do you think he had a really bad accident or . . . ?"

"It's hard to say," Brice said. "Maybe someone did this to him deliberately or he even did it himself. But it's so unusual that we might be able to trace his identity through these means."

Reed certainly hoped so. Down below, it sounded as though the firing was starting up again. He frowned, listening to the noise.

He also hoped Malloy and the others were going to be alright down there. And that he and Sergeant Brice would be alright up here.

xxxx

Andy was not pleased by the news of an official contract on his life. And both he and Amory were even less pleased that they would need to continue staying out of sight for a while.

"I need to be on this investigation," Andy protested.

"And I have a business to attend to," Amory exclaimed.

But Lieutenant Tragg was firm. "The minute either one of you steps out of this hotel, there's no telling what could happen. In fact, there's no telling what could happen to you _in_ this hotel, judging by the way things have been going lately."

Andy sighed in frustration. "There has to be a better way."

Tragg sighed too. "If we had a decoy, we might be able to draw the hitman out and catch him. But I can't ask you to do that, Mr. Fallon. Of course there'd be a certain amount of risk involved."

Amory looked down. He should volunteer for it anyway, he supposed, but he did not want to. He did not want to run the risk of being killed, for his sake as well as Edith's.

"I'll do it," Andy insisted. "Lieutenant, you know that would be the best solution. I'm trained for this sort of thing, while Mr. Fallon is not. I'd wear a bullet-resistant vest and take other precautionary methods."

Tragg's face darkened. He knew that Andy spoke the truth, but he hated it. "You just came back safe after we thought you were badly hurt," he said, his voice cracking. "And you're the one they want. Andy . . . I don't want you to do it."

"I know, but . . ." Andy laid a hand on Tragg's shoulder. "You know as well as I do that it would be the best and most logical way."

And Tragg did. It was one of the things he hated the most about his line of work—having to make decisions that put the people he cared deeply about into life-threatening situations. He had to do it, of course. But in this case he stepped away, still desperate for another solution.

"Give me some time to think about it," he said. "Sergeant Brice is still at your house with a squad, and I've just got a report that they're under fire from an unknown amount of snipers."

"What?!" Both Andy and Amory stared.

"That's ridiculous!" Andy cried then. "Why would they attack my house to that extent? Obviously I'm not there. And they're just making themselves known to everyone who _is_ there!"

"I know, I know. It doesn't make sense." Tragg frowned deeply. "Andy, what kind of a hornets' nest have you and Mr. Fallon stirred up? This mess long ago started to seem like more than just your average criminal ring."

Amory ran his hands into his hair. "If I just knew more about what happened with Ned," he berated. "If we could just find those papers!"

"We're still working on that, too," Tragg assured him. "But meanwhile, the more immediate problem is this ordered hit on Andy."

Andy sighed, going back to the couch. "I can only think of two reasons why those snipers would attack a group of armed policemen," he said. "They must either be fools and think they're more powerful than the police . . . or they really are." He leaned forward, overwhelmed.

"That's how we had it figured too," Tragg admitted. "I was thinking about the group that kidnapped you and how they used that bunker and got out of it so quick. They're the ones that really wanted Mr. Fallon, yet someone in their organization has ordered the hit on you. I've got the feeling that they're all professionals."

Andy nodded. "And we don't even know who the ones are who knocked Amory out thinking he was me." He passed a hand over his face.

"I wish I remembered something that would help," Amory said regretfully. "Maybe if I heard the man's voice again it would ring a bell, but I just don't know."

"Well, I'm going to check in with Sergeant Brice's squad," Tragg announced. "Hopefully they've managed to turn the tide on those snipers." He crossed the room to the corner and picked up his handset.

Andy and Amory watched him, hoping the same.

"Maybe I really should volunteer to be a decoy," Amory said after a moment. "This case is just so frustrating! I keep feeling like I should be doing more to move it along."

Andy turned to look at him. "But you haven't had the training," he retorted. "I have. No, I don't want to see you try to play undercover cop."

Amory sighed. "I know all that. But . . ."

"We'll figure this case out without you having to make that kind of sacrifice," Andy interrupted firmly. "Anyway, I just don't think I could bear to face your wife if something happened to you."

Amory looked sickened by the thought. He fell silent, not broaching the subject again.

xxxx

Daniel was anxious to call the workday over, after the slim amount of sleep he had managed to procure early that morning. Towards late afternoon he knew his usefulness had been spent. He stumbled up from his desk, grabbing his hat off the rack.

"Miss Eastman, I'm leaving now," he called into the outer office.

His secretary appeared in the doorway, concern shining in her eyes. "Can you even stand to drive home, Daniel?" she asked.

Daniel smiled tiredly. The middle-aged Clara Eastman thought of him more as a son than an employer. He did not mind her looking after him at times, especially since he had no family in the area.

He reached out, laying his hands on her shoulders. "I'll be fine," he assured her. "And if I end up getting too worn-out, I'll pull over and rest in the car."

She nodded slowly but was still worried. "You _could_ stay here and sleep on the couch in your office," she said. "After all, that's what it's there for."

"I know, and I like that old couch. But I never went home last night at all. I'm craving to see my bed again." Daniel spoke with a crooked yet sincere smile.

She sighed. "I figured you hadn't ever gone home when I found you asleep at your desk. Well, I suppose if you're going to try to make the drive, you should get started before you grow even sleepier. Or I could drive you!" she added hopefully.

Daniel considered that. "It would be nice not to have to concentrate on the driving," he admitted.

"Then I'll just close up my computer and we'll go," she smiled. "I'll just be a minute."

It was less than a minute, and the ride downstairs in the elevator was uneventful. But as they reached the ground floor moments later, Daniel nearly walked into a blonde girl wandering the lobby.

"I'm sorry," he said in surprise, stepping back and reaching to steady her. "This building is closed, Madam. How, pray tell, did you get in?"

She turned and smiled at him. "Why, I got in before it was closed," she chirped.

He rocked back. He recognized her, only too well. This was Virginia!

". . . And what was your business here?" he queried now, not wanting to let on that he was aware of her identity.

"I wanted to talk with you, Mr. Conway," she said.

Miss Eastman frowned. "I could arrange for you to have an appointment with Mr. Conway for tomorrow," she said. "There aren't any more open for today."

"That's alright, Miss Eastman," Daniel said, wide-awake now. "Perhaps the young lady's problem is urgent."

Virginia giggled. "Well, maybe not _urgent,_ but I was hoping to see about it right away. Mr. Conway, I was told you'd know where Warner Griffith is keeping himself these days."

Daniel raised an eyebrow. "I'm afraid your information is wrong, Miss," he said. "I haven't spoken to Mr. Griffith in years. And if his current address in the telephone directory isn't up-to-date, I really don't have any idea where he is right now."

"Oh no. That's such a shame. I really need to see him, too."

"Might I ask what about?" Daniel returned.

"It has to do with his missing son," Virginia said. "See, he hired me some time ago to find his boy, but I didn't have any luck. Now I think I might finally be on to something!"

"The police might be interested in that information," Daniel said.

Virginia looked down in guilt. "Well . . . I guess I'd rather tell Mr. Griffith first," she said. "Since it's his son and all."

"I understand," Daniel said. "But they'll know where to reach Mr. Griffith. I'm afraid that I simply don't."

Virginia looked up again. "I'm such a filly!" she berated. "Of course. The police are the perfect people to go to when I can't find the address anywhere. I'll go right there and ask about it.

"Mr. Conway, I'm really sorry for bothering you when you're headin' home and all."

"Think nothing of it," Daniel said. "Finding missing people takes precedence." He unlocked the heavy glass doors and held one of them open for her. "I wish you luck."

"Why, thank you." Virginia started to head out but paused. "You're an awful lot nicer than Mr. Griffith says you are."

"I'm honored to have your more favorable opinion of me," Daniel smiled. "Good afternoon now."

She waved and started towards a fancy convertible parked in front of the building.

Miss Eastman came up beside Daniel, staring in amazed disbelief. "What on Earth was that all about?" she exclaimed.

"I don't know," Daniel frowned. "But on the way home, Miss Eastman, I believe I'd better place a call or two." He reached in his pocket for his phone as they started outside.

Miss Eastman gaped. "Do you know who that girl is, Daniel?"

"I know the name she's using," Daniel said. "But no, I'm afraid I don't know who she actually is."

"Could she have actually found Mr. Griffith's long-lost son?" Miss Eastman wondered in a bit of awe. "That would be so wonderful. Maybe he would even stop being so angry towards you and the world."

"I didn't have anything to do with his son's disappearance," Daniel said, "so I can't imagine he would especially treat me differently. But yes, it would be nice if Jason had turned up alive and well. I'm afraid, though, that we can't depend on anything that woman says to be the truth."

Miss Eastman blinked. "If it isn't, what could she have wanted here?" she exclaimed.

"That's exactly what I would like to know," Daniel declared. "Most exactly."


	18. Envelope

**Notes: The story liiives! And finally I've managed to get to some of the revelations I've been wanting to. Hopefully now things will move more smoothly.**

**Chapter Eighteen**

"'Can't get away any time soon. Is Gregory's condition fatal? Let us know.'"

Sampson set the telegram aside on the end table in disgust and discouragement. "I really have loving parents," he remarked. "This was their reaction after finally getting the news in their local newspaper about the stabbing. Do you know why they can't get away, Mr. Burger? Theatre tickets." He nodded to emphasize the point. "Theatre tickets, and some meeting my father arranged with a local businessman in Switzerland."

Hamilton gripped the metal railing. "I'm sorry, Sampson," he said in all sincerity. As far as he was concerned, Sampson's parents had never deserved to have him. He was so much better than they were, but they were always criticizing him and feeling that he was not good enough. It was no wonder that Sampson always felt he had to prove something to Hamilton.

Both Hamilton and the doctor were amazed and even stunned by Sampson's recovery. He was weakened and pale and in pain, but he was out of mortal danger. He would live. And Hamilton supposed it was terrible, but he was not all that enthused about writing Sampson's parents to let them know. They had likely only sent the telegram out of a desire to not look completely heartless. And maybe somewhere deep down, they cared about Sampson. But they did not truly love him. Of that Hamilton was certain.

Sampson sighed and leaned back. "It's alright, Mr. Burger. I'm used to it by now. At least . . . I thought I was." He gazed off into the distance. "I don't think I've ever been seriously injured before, so this is the first time I've come up against this particular problem. I knew I didn't think they cared enough about me to do anything much, and I imagined that if I ever was hurt, something like this would happen, but still I . . . I guess I was still hoping . . ." He shook his head, letting his sentence trail off into nothing. "I'm a fool for that."

"No, you're not," Hamilton countered. "You're a son wanting the love you deserve from the parents who should be giving it. They're the fools."

Sampson was silent for a moment. ". . . Thank you," he said at last. Then, changing the subject, he looked up with urgency. "Oh, Mr. Burger! Victor told me he would try to get in touch with Mr. Fallon to deliver a message. Do you know if he was able to yet?"

"I don't know," Hamilton said in surprise. "He mentioned something about trying to reach him, though. What was the message, if I may ask?"

Sampson flushed. "Well . . . I don't know if you'll think I was hallucinating, Mr. Burger. I remember how you've felt about anything out of the ordinary in the past. But I saw two dead men while I was unconscious. One of them was Ned Thompson. He wanted me to tell Mr. Fallon to beware of someone named Virginia. He said they'd already met."

Hamilton slumped back. "I'll admit I would have thought you were hallucinating in the past, Greg, but now . . ." He shook his head. "After everything we've been through for the last year or so, I can't just dismiss it that easily anymore. And I also heard that Ned Thompson supposedly saved Mr. and Mrs. Fallon from being shot to death yesterday. The bullet was coming right at them, but he somehow deflected it into the wall to their left. I saw the crime scene after the fact. Anyway . . . I guess if he could do that, he could just as easily appear to you with a message."

Sampson relaxed, the relief obvious in his eyes.

"Besides," Hamilton continued, "I don't know how else you'd know about Virginia. No one talked about her in your room, where you could have overheard."

"So everyone knows about her?!" Sampson exclaimed in amazement.

"Right now, yes." Hamilton frowned. "We just don't know who she really is or why she's really here."

He hesitated for a long moment. "Sampson, right before you passed out last night, Chamberlin told me you said the name 'Warner Griffith.'"

Sampson stiffened. "What about him?"

Hamilton sighed. "We had no idea. I went and looked through your files to see if I could find a clue."

"I see." Sampson averted his gaze. "And you found the letter, Mr. Burger?"

"Yes, I found it."

Sampson sighed, heavily. "I have to confess, Mr. Burger, that when I gave my reasons for not telling you about my past before, I didn't list them all. I'm afraid I also . . ." His voice lowered. ". . . Well, I . . . didn't want you to think less of me. I know that's shameful after what I did, but my parents never looked at me the same after it happened and I . . . I couldn't bear to think of the same thing happening with you. Even when I wanted to confide in you, those feelings—as well as what I said in the letter—held me back."

Hamilton regarded his deputy with compassion. "Greg. . . ." He laid a hand on Sampson's shoulder, causing him to look up in surprise. "It happened a long time ago. You've done everything you possibly could to make amends since then. You turned your entire life around because of it. And you're even still looking for Griffith's son. I'm sure all of us have at least one skeleton in the closet. But not everyone would try as hard as you have to make it right."

Sampson's eyes filled with awe. "Then you aren't disappointed in me, Mr. Burger?"

Hamilton shook his head. "No," he said firmly. "I'm proud."

Sampson relaxed into the pillows with a smile, now at peace.

"Oh, and wait a minute. Did you say your parents are in Switzerland, meeting some businessman?!"

"Yes," Sampson blinked. "What about it?"

"Do you know the name of that businessman?"

Sampson paused, mulling it over in his mind. "Oh . . . I believe it's something like Kenyon Samuel Jaspers."

Hamilton leaped up. "That's the name of the man who purchased the chess set at the police auction!" he exclaimed. "The one the police could never locate!"

Sampson stared in bewildered and amazed disbelief. "Really, Mr. Burger?"

"Yes." Hamilton reached for the phone. "The police have even thought that it could be J.K. Stratton using another name."

"Of course," Sampson breathed. "Mr. Burger, what are you going to do?"

"I'm going to call the police," Hamilton declared, "and have them get in touch with the Swiss police. With any luck, maybe they can round up Kenyon Samuel Jaspers and it can be proved whether or not he's Stratton. And if he _is . . ._" Hamilton looked to Sampson in gratitude and joy. "Then you will have been directly responsible for helping us bring him in. He's so deeply involved in this mess that he has to have a lot of the answers. He'd just better be willing to let us have them too."

Hope shone in Sampson's eyes. "I hope he will be the same man," he said. "I honestly don't know much about him or I might be able to tell you myself, Mr. Burger."

"You've told enough to give us something else to try," Hamilton said as he dialed. "And believe me, that's more than enough."

xxxx

Amory looked to Andy, baffled as Andy hung up the phone. "What was that all about?" he asked. "I heard you say something about telling me."

Andy looked back, seeming occupied. "That was Lieutenant Drumm," he said. "Victor Chamberlin called and gave him a message to be relayed to you from Mr. Sampson."

Amory's eyes widened. "Then . . . Mr. Sampson is awake?"

Andy smiled. "Awake and going to be fine." A far-away look came into his eyes. "He had some kind of an experience where he saw an old friend of mine. And he also saw Ned Thompson."

"What?! Why?" Amory exclaimed. "Why would Ned go to him? They never even met!"

Andy shook his head. "He said that for some reason he had not been able to communicate with you or Mrs. Fallon, but Mr. Sampson could hear him because he was so near death. Apparently Mr. Thompson was worried about you and wanted Mr. Sampson to tell you not to have anything to do with Virginia. He claimed to have met her in the past."

Amory let out a breath. "I guess that doesn't really surprise me," he admitted. "Ned always was a ladies' man. But . . . for him to reach out from the grave like this, first protecting Edith and I and now talking to Mr. Sampson . . ." He shook his head. "It's all so different and strange and so unlike what Ned was like during the last part of his life that I don't know what to make of it."

"I can understand that." Andy started to get up from the couch.

"And I don't _want_ to have anything to do with Virginia, unless I'm trying to figure out what her purpose here is," Amory frowned.

"Well, I suggest that you don't even try that, Mr. Fallon. Leave it to the police." Andy glanced across the room. Tragg was on the radio again, talking with Sergeant Brice.

Brice and the men with him were still out at Andy's house, tense and unsure of what to make of the snipers that had attacked them. Right now all had fallen silent, but they had little hope it would last. The snipers could not have got away, so they had to still be there, watching, waiting. It was very unsettling, both for them and for the ones waiting for the news about them. From Tragg's expression, he was afraid that any moment he would hear gunfire cut in over the airwaves.

Andy stood, wanting to talk with him but not wanting to interfere with the radio call. He walked around the room, restless, his mind turning.

All of those people were in danger at _his_ house. The snipers had gathered there and were taking potshots at all of them. Andy could not make sense of it in the least, but he knew he hated the fact that his property had become a battlefield.

He tried to think about something more pleasant.

It was nice to know that Otto was still watching over them. He had been the one to escort Ned to Sampson and introduce them.

Andy always kept the memories of his and Otto's friendship deep in his heart. Thoughts of Otto's death in the line of duty still made his heart hurt, although it was not nearly as horrible a pain as it would be if Otto actually had turned out to be guilty of robbery, as Ralph Pearce had wanted it to appear.

When Andy had learned from Perry that both Otto and Jimmy were innocent of all wrongdoing, it had been an immense weight lifted from his heart and soul. For so long it had looked like it had to be one or the other, and in his desperation to not believe it was his own cousin, Andy had been forced to look at the possibility of Otto's guilt. It had torn him up inside and had put a strain between him and Mrs. Norden, even though he had not been able to bring himself to reveal his suspicions to her. She had sensed them, since Andy had not acted as though he believed Jimmy guilty when they conversed.

The dreaded sound of gunfire broke into Andy's thoughts and he looked up with a shocked jerk. "Lieutenant?!"

Tragg had gone sheet-white. "Brice?!" he barked into the radio. "Sergeant Brice, answer me! Are you alright?"

Amory rose from the couch and he and Andy went to Tragg's side, both of them worried and concerned as well. The barrage was clearly coming from both sides of the war, and when it sounded like a cry of pain right near the radio, Tragg's and Andy's fears increased a hundredfold.

"Was that Brice?" Andy whispered, not sure, not really daring to know.

"I don't know," Tragg responded grimly. _But even if it wasn't, it was most likely another policeman._

At last the shooting stopped. For an agonizing moment, dead silence reigned. But then the radio came to life again, with indistinct shouts from the men and frantic running.

"They're checking on the wounded," Andy knew. "Seeing who's still alive."

Again the radio crackled. "Lieutenant?" It was Brice's voice. He was breathing heavily, either from pain or possibly from exertion.

"Sergeant?!" Tragg gripped the mouthpiece, his knuckles white. "What's going on over there?! It sounded like everyone was blown to Kingdom Come!"

"I'm sorry, Lieutenant." Now Tragg was sure that Brice was hurt. "There's a lot of injuries here, on both sides. And . . ." He hesitated. "There's probably some fatalities."

"How badly are _you_ hurt, Sergeant?" Tragg demanded.

"I'm alright, Lieutenant," Brice tried to assure him. "The important thing is, we caught at least one of the snipers. And he claims he was hired to take out Lieutenant Anderson after he and the rest were done here."

"What?!" Tragg took a moment to process the new information. Andy and Amory exchanged a look.

"Is he the only one who was hired to kill me?" Andy asked at last.

"We'll know more later, Lieutenant," Brice told him, "but right now we're hoping that's the case."

"So are we," Tragg declared. "Let us know as soon as you know more, Sergeant."

"I will, Lieutenant," Brice replied. "Or someone else here will."

"And you'd better be telling the truth, that you're alright," Tragg added gruffly.

"I am," Brice promised. "I'm sorry, Lieutenant, I have to go now. But you'll be kept informed."

The radio clicked off before Tragg could respond. Muttering, he replaced the mouthpiece in its holder. "Bah, I can't tell what's going on there," he grunted. "I have this feeling that Brice was leaving so he could be checked out by a medic."

"He could have been," Andy agreed. "But hopefully he's telling the truth about it not being serious."

Tragg nodded. "Yeah."

They were both thinking the same thing: that it might be more serious than Brice would even realize. But neither of them wanted to say it.

Amory hung back, not sure what to say and feeling uncomfortable to be present for a scene that was very personal to both policemen. However, he, like the others, was certainly hoping for a positive resolution—on all fronts.

xxxx

The news came in from the Swiss police that evening. Kenyon Samuel Jaspers _was_ J.K. Stratton, hiding under an alias. At the request of the Los Angeles Police Department, he was being flown back under police protection. Sampson's parents, confused and baffled by their meeting being cut short, chased after him on the first plane available following the end of their theatre engagement.

"So that's what it takes to get them out here," Sampson said dryly when he heard. "It's mostly Father's doing; Mother just does whatever he wants. And then when they come, they'll make up an excuse about how they were so worried about me and rushed back as fast as they could get away."

"Maybe at least your mother was worried," Chamberlin said quietly.

"Maybe they both were," Sampson countered. "Just not enough to warrant breaking away from everything they'd gone over there to see and take care of. I wonder what they would have done if they had received the news that I was dead."

". . . I can't imagine that they wouldn't have been heartbroken," Chamberlin said after a moment.

"Perhaps so," Sampson mused. "And I guess it's terrible of me, but I would have liked to have seen that. Although on the other hand, that doesn't seem very flattering, either—for them to only feel anything loving towards me if they think I'm gone."

Chamberlin didn't know what to say to that. Finally he laid a hand on Sampson's shoulder.

"You're right," he said. "That wouldn't be very nice."

"Too little, too late," Sampson added.

He sighed, closing his eyes. "Oh well. At least maybe this bizarre mystery will get at least a little less complicated now, if Stratton tells the truth. And if the only hitman pursuing Lieutenant Anderson has been stopped."

Chamberlin nodded. He certainly wanted to see all of that come to pass, even moreso since Sampson had become involved.

"Then maybe things can start getting back to normal around here," he said.

Sampson half-smirked. "That would be nice, wouldn't it."

xxxx

J.K. Stratton was not proving to be a cooperative witness. Even after his worried and bewildered daughter was brought to him at Andy and Amory's hotel, where everyone had gathered, he did not want to talk.

"Mr. Stratton," Perry said at last, "if the problem is that you wish to speak with legal counsel before saying anything, I would be happy to advise you."

Stratton looked down at his hands. "No," he retorted. "That isn't it. But thank you."

Perry's eyes narrowed as he looked from Stratton to the others in the room—many of them his friends, who had been going through so much over the last several days. Usually he was quite a patient person, but when he knew how badly his friends had been suffering, some of it because of this man's actions, that patience was swiftly unraveling. He wanted Stratton to talk, to admit to his ill deeds, to free Perry's friends from their burdens.

On the other hand, maybe Stratton's words would only add more burdens. But at least they would know what was going on. In this case, ignorance was _not_ bliss.

Lily sat down next to Stratton, her long hair swinging with the motion. "Daddy, if you're worried about me, I'll be safe now," she said. "Come on, you can't just leave all these people hanging!"

"You might be able to clear a lot of things up for us, Mr. Stratton," said Andy, standing over him in frustration. "Perhaps you're unaware of how bad things look for you right now. We have a witness placing you at the scene of a brutal murder. Ned Thompson was your friend. You bought his chess set at the police auction. The chess knight statue was found in your garage, with your fingerprints on it. The secret compartment containing an envelope meant for Mr. Fallon was opened and the envelope removed. Can you give us an explanation for even _one_ of these things?"

Throughout Andy's exposition Stratton sat on the couch, unmoved as he looked down. Steve joined Andy now, just as frustrated and angry.

"Do you know how many people have been endangered on this case?!" he exclaimed. "How many could have died?"

Stratton finally looked up with a jerk. "Yes!" he snapped. "But they're not dead."

"And that's your excuse?!" Steve's eyes flamed. "I'm sorry, Mr. Stratton, that's not good enough."

Hamilton stepped forward now. "Mr. Stratton, can you at least tell us if you're the one who took the envelope from the statue?"

"Even if I did, how would knowing that help you?" Stratton returned.

"We'd know we could stop looking for it," Hamilton replied. "And even if you feel you can't tell us anything yourself, could you at least give us that envelope?"

Stratton scowled. ". . . It's sewn into the lining of my coat," he said at last, grudgingly.

"_Thank you."_ Steve immediately went to the coat, examining it for the sound of crackling paper. Finding it, he took out his pocketknife and began slicing through the stitching. As the envelope slipped out, he caught it, turned it over in his hands, and handed it to Amory Fallon.

"I believe this belongs to you," he declared.

Amory accepted it, his hands trembling a bit. "Six years," he whispered. "Ned had this hidden away for six years, hoping I'd find it." It was a strange feeling; he was holding some of the final words of a dead man.

He sank onto the couch to tear the envelope open. Edith sat next to him, tense, her eyes widening as several photographs and assorted folded sheets of paper fell out. Amory grabbed for the nearest item, quickly growing stunned as he saw what it was.

"This mentions that Ned first got involved with these people through some mutual friends of his and Carlos Silva," he said in surprise. "But he's quick to assure me that Silva actually knew nothing of what these people were really doing." He frowned. "Can I believe that? Silva was going to buy the Martin project behind my back."

"We'll look into it," Steve said firmly.

Amory picked up a photograph. "Here's Ned and Stratton," he announced. "On the back of it, he writes that Mr. Stratton is one of those mutual friends."

Stratton paled. "I wasn't that deeply involved!" he cried. "Just because I tried to get in on a little business deal or two . . ."

"You got involved in a _murder,_ Mr. Stratton," Steve snapped. "Now, how would you like to tell us about that?"

"I wouldn't," Stratton mumbled, running a hand over his face. But he complied, relating a story much the same as what Brendon Mileson had told Steve. He, however, omitted any mention of telling the gunman that the murder victim had stolen the envelope from the knight statue and he even claimed he didn't know who the victim was.

"Mr. Stratton . . ." Hamilton placed a hand on the couch arm. "Our witness says something a little different."

Steve nodded. "Maybe you don't know the man's identity, but our witness claims that the reason he was killed was because you told the hitman that the other man had stolen this envelope."

Stratton glowered. "And you believe him over me?"

"You haven't exactly been cooperative," Andy said in annoyance.

Lily looked back and forth between them, wide-eyed. "That's not true, is it, Dad?!" she exclaimed. "You didn't really lie and cause that guy to get killed!"

"I didn't know that's what he had in mind!" Stratton finally burst out.

Steve was not impressed. "Come now, Mr. Stratton. You can't just sit there and tell us you lied about taking the envelope yourself and you _didn't_ expect to be killed if the truth came out. You lied to cast suspicion on someone else, knowing that person would be likely to die instead of you!"

Stratton crossed his arms. "I won't say one more word on that subject without my lawyer present."

"Then we'll call him," Steve shot back. "But meanwhile, alright. We'll switch to a different subject. Who was the man who pulled the trigger?"

". . . Randall Madsen," Stratton said numbly. "His picture is probably in there."

Amory pawed through the other scattered contents of the envelope until Stratton declared, "There! That's him."

Amory held up the photograph for the police and the lawyers to see. Madsen was dressed like an ordinary businessman, not appearing particularly threatening at all—except in his cold eyes and slight smirk.

"I don't like the looks of him," Perry frowned.

"He's heartless," Stratton said with a shudder.

"I assume he's part of the organization that abducted me, thinking I was Mr. Fallon," Andy said.

"Yes." Stratton slumped back with a sigh, rubbing his forehead. "They're a militarian group, buying and selling arms on the black market. Or at least, that's one aspect of what they're doing."

"Ned wouldn't have been involved with that," Amory retorted.

"He wasn't," Stratton said. "I haven't been, either. We were both involved with another arm of the organization, the supposedly legitimate business to which Madsen belonged. What we didn't know was that we'd be dragged in deeper and deeper until they tried to involve us in the weapons dealing."

Edith picked up a nearby sheet of paper and opened it. "This is some kind of list," she reported. "I think it's telling about the people who bought the guns."

Andy took it from her and looked it over. "You're right, Mrs. Fallon," he said in alarm. "And some of the names on here are quite damning. If this got out, a lot of prominent people would go under."

Amory stared. "These people were all buying into this military organization?" he said in disbelief.

"Not all," Stratton interjected. "Some of them wanted the weapons for other purposes. But yes, some of them did fall in with this group and their plans."

"And that's the magnitude of what we have to stop," Andy groaned. His stomach was beginning to turn in knots.

"We're probably going to have to involve the real military," Hamilton realized.

Perry nodded. "Hopefully Lieutenant Tragg is having some luck questioning the assassin they caught at your house, Andy. Maybe then we'll know even more."

"I hope so," Andy said fervently. "Honestly, Perry, the more we learn, the more overwhelming this sounds."

Amory was definitely of the same mind. He slumped back, surrounded by the artifacts left to him by Ned Thompson.

Worried, Edith turned to him and laid a hand on his shoulder. "Amory?"

He looked to her. ". . . It's hard not to feel angry," he confessed. "I thought I was upset at Ned involving me when I _didn't_ know what was going on. And now that we know it's something this big . . ." He ran a hand through his hair. "How are we ever going to come out on top of it?! It's a nightmare!"

Edith drew a deep breath. "At least," she said softly, "we'll be facing this one together."


	19. Capture

**Notes: This is more of a transitional chapter, but it does start to set up some of the new troubles that will plague the characters. None of their enemies are about to rest.**

**Chapter Nineteen**

Lieutenant Tragg would have most certainly been at the questioning of J.K. Stratton if it hadn't been that he was already involved with a problem of his own. As Perry had said, Tragg was conducting an interrogation of the assassin captured during the attack on Andy's house.

Or at least, Lieutenant Tragg was _attempting_ to conduct said interrogation.

"You know, it'll go much easier on you if you just talk," he said, placing a hand on the back of the hitman's chair as he paced from one side of the room to the other.

"How much easier?" the assassin countered.

"Oh, I'm afraid I can't say that," Tragg replied. "You'd have to talk with the district attorney."

"Then that's what I want."

In more than thirty years on the force, Tragg had long ago learned to try to curb his frustrations. Exploding with them, in many cases, only gave triumph to the criminals. But right now it was extremely difficult to hold back. Andy had been in danger for days. Now they finally had someone in custody who had been hired to kill him and the wretch was mum.

"Just answer whether you're actually part of this rebel group or if this is your first involvement with them," Tragg said at last.

"First involvement," the man muttered, probably hoping that would also reduce the sentence.

"And who hired you?" Tragg persisted. "The group as a whole or one professing to be the leader?"

"Someone who said he was the leader. Randall Madsen."

Tragg glanced to an officer standing by the door. "Give that name to the police techies," he ordered. "See what they can do with it."

The officer nodded and opened the door just slightly to speak to another officer outside.

"Now then," Tragg continued, "how much did you know about Madsen and his organization?"

"I knew they wanted Anderson dead because he could identify some of the members," was the reply. "And he had us put on this show at his house to demonstrate that his group isn't scared of the police."

"Yeah?" Tragg grunted, unimpressed. "Well, they're going to be scared." He looked hard at the prisoner. "Where's their hideout?"

"They've got several. I heard them talking about a couple of old bunkers, but I didn't see them. It's like I'm telling you—this was my first involvement. They hired me and gave me the address of Anderson's house. So all I know about this group is what the older members were saying while we were setting up shop."

"That figures," Tragg muttered. Louder he said, "Did anyone give any clues on where the bunkers are? We know about a bunker, but they left it long ago."

"Just that they're near the Los Angeles area," the assassin shrugged. "Probably out in the sticks or in the canyons or something like that."

Suddenly Tragg stiffened. A new idea had just occurred to him.

"Get a team ready to go out to Dr. Portman's underground bunker in the canyons," he ordered the officer. "I'll head it up."

The officer blinked in surprise. "You think they might be there, Lieutenant?"

"Who knows," Tragg growled. "It's something we should look into, at any rate."

xxxx

Dr. Portman's bunker had been supposedly abandoned since her arrest. The entire space had been meticulously examined by the Air Police as well as the LAPD, but traces of the horrors that had once filled the halls still remained. Blood stained the laboratories' walls and floors. Some of the investigating officers had been completely spooked, claiming they could hear screams and see shadows when no one else was around.

Tragg might have scoffed at all of that once, but he couldn't anymore. And even if he had not been forced to concede the existence of strange and even supernatural phenomena, it wouldn't have been hard to believe that restless and tortured spirits roamed the empty corridors. At least three prisoners had been rescued alive, that Tragg knew of—Captain Michael Caldwell of the United States Air Force, a golf club owner and former blackmailer named Ray Norman, and a crooked private detective called Glen Holman. Many others had only been recovered posthumously.

Tragg had spoken on the phone to Hamilton about the questioning of J.K. Stratton and then had called the Air Police while the LAPD team was being assembled. If it was true that the group hiding in bunkers fancied themselves a militarian organization, it seemed best to bring in the real military to assist in their capture. And if they were now taking refuge in a location that the Air Police had extensively investigated, it seemed the most logical to contact them instead of the Army's Military Police. Captain McVey of the Air Police knew every nook and each cranny in the location of Portman's devilry.

And Captain McVey was very interested in the tale Tragg told him. "You'll have our full cooperation, Lieutenant," he vowed. "I'll assemble the team that searched Portman's bunker with me and we'll be out there as soon as we can. Don't move on your own; wait for us."

"We'll wait as long as possible, Captain," Tragg said. "But if we have reason to believe that they're not only there, but planning to clear out, we might have to take matters into our own hands."

"We'll try to ensure that those actions won't be necessary," McVey promised.

xxxx

To everyone's collective relief, the Air Police arrived well ahead of schedule and they were all able to advance on the bunker together.

"There's definitely some kind of activity going on in there," McVey frowned, watching as a Jeep vanished into the woods surrounding the structure. "This was a good hunch of yours, Lieutenant. But even if this group is hiding out in there, it's probably not every single one of them."

Tragg nodded. "They're probably spread out in several different locations," he said in disgust. "They wouldn't want to risk getting caught because they all stayed in the same place. But if we can make any kind of a dent in their operations at all, it's an improvement."

"Does Lieutenant Anderson know about these proceedings tonight?" McVey wondered.

"Yeah, I told him," Tragg said. "Maybe for now the immediate danger against his life has passed, but if we don't get all of these people caught, they're sure to take out another contract on him."

McVey fully agreed. "We'll move in now," he directed. "Slowly. We don't want them to know we're here until we're right on top of them."

"There could be an alarm," Tragg frowned as they made their way through the trees and brush.

"We'll stay alert." McVey nodded to one of his assistants. "We're tracking the presence of any laser beams. Watch out for tripwires."

The entire operation seemed too easy at the time. In retrospect, Tragg felt that way all the more. It didn't take long to corner and round up the people both inside and outside, in spite of their resistance. But they seemed genuinely surprised to be caught. And when Tragg spotted people who matched the descriptions Andy had given him of the top men he had encountered at the other bunker, he was all the more concerned.

"Captain, I'm afraid we're dealing with something far more devious than we even imagined," he declared as he leaned on the top of his squad car. All around them, officers of both the LAPD and the Air Police were loading their catches into the vehicles. Most prisoners were complaining very loudly.

McVey looked to him. "You're thinking it too, aren't you, Lieutenant?" he said. "That this has all been too simple."

Tragg nodded. "And the supposed ringleaders we've captured, including the one identified as Randall Madsen. Andy mentioned them. These are the people he could identify." His eyes narrowed. "I have the feeling that every one of these people was set up by whoever's really in charge of this ring. Perhaps the true boss got fed up with all of the stupid things they've been doing—mistaking Andy for Mr. Fallon, not even trying to hide their identity to him, sniping his house, taking out a contract on him. . . ."

"And so they decided that all of these people would be their sacrificial lambs?" McVey mused. "There's a lot here. What guarantee would the boss have that at least some of them wouldn't crack and reveal everything?"

"Maybe they don't know everything," Tragg replied. "Who knows—the real boss's identity might be a secret even to them." He sighed, massaging his forehead. "Or maybe I've just been hanging around Perry Mason too long. It would certainly be nicer to think that this is it."

McVey nodded. "Until anyone says otherwise, we can pretty much only assume that this really _is_ it," he said. "But you're making a valid point, Lieutenant. We'll have to stay alert until we're sure that there aren't any others."

xxxx

It soon became grimly clear that there were definitely others. J.K. Stratton could not identify the man arrested as Randall Madsen.

"He isn't the man who was threatening me in the graveyard," he declared. "Not unless he's the greatest disguise artist in the world. And those pictures of Mr. Fallon's easily back me up. The Madsen in those photographs in the man I know by that name."

"The one claiming to be Randall Madsen now is the bearded man I saw when I was held prisoner," Andy announced. "But if he isn't Madsen, why would he and the others that have been arrested say that's who he is?"

"That could have been what they were instructed to do if they were caught," Perry said. "It all depends on how deep this matter, and everyone's convictions, run. Are they willing to sacrifice themselves for whatever cause they've taken up?"

"If they are, they're the most dangerous kind of criminals," Steve declared.

"And how," Andy groaned.

Hamilton looked to him. "At least I suppose this means the heat is off of you, Andy," he said. "The people that have been taken into custody are the ones you can identify. The real Madsen, or whoever is still out there, won't have any reason to put out a contract on your life."

"We can hope, anyway," Andy said. "He might do it if he thinks I'm getting too close to the truth."

"Well, right now we're all either about to get close to the truth or we've run into a dead end," Hamilton announced.

"There's still other angles," Perry reminded him. "Don't forget about Virginia."

"I haven't," Hamilton assured his friend. "I suppose that since the Air Police is assuming jurisdiction of these people that have been arrested, I'll be turning the majority of my attention to that problem Mignon presented me with."

"And Warner Griffith," Andy added. "Somehow they're both mixed up in something strange. And Griffith is supposedly involved in the Thompson case."

"He was supposed to be available for questioning tonight," Steve said in irritation. "He still isn't."

"Did anyone ever find out what was supposed to be missing from Ned Thompson's casefile?" Amory frowned. "The one that Mr. Sampson had, I mean."

"No," Hamilton sighed. "Sampson's still confused on that. And the assassin is dead now, so we can't ask him."

"The only thing he said when I asked him was that it would've made things more clear that it really was Ned Thompson and not this non-existent Thompkins," Steve said. "And there wasn't ever anything like that in there. So my guess is that he was just badly informed and drew his own conclusions."

"Unless there _was_ something like that that was supposed to have gone into the file, but didn't," Perry said. "Someone could have intercepted it."

"Someone would have wanted that mystery to remain unsolved all this time?" Hamilton sighed. "Maybe it's nothing like that at all, Perry. Maybe Steve is right."

"Maybe," Perry said noncommittally.

"Well, I remember that guy I saw watching Andy," Jimmy spoke up. "And Mr. Fallon was mistaken for Andy when he was clobbered. Don't forget we haven't solved any of that yet." He looked to Andy. "Someone's still out to get you, even if it's not these militarian nutcases anymore."

"_I_ most certainly haven't forgotten," Amory groaned, raising a hand to his head.

Andy nodded. "This case is nowhere near finished," he declared.

"At least we finally have the information Ned sent to me," Amory said. "That should help in bringing all of these people down."

"It should," Tragg nodded. "Unless they've moved on to other enterprises now. We can't seem to find any listing for that supposedly legitimate company Madsen is running."

"Oh, it's probably still around," Perry said. "Under another name, most likely."

"Right," Tragg grunted.

Della looked to Hamilton. "Mr. Burger, how is Mr. Sampson doing?" she asked.

"Quite a bit better," Hamilton assured her. "I'm not really worried now. He's been fighting hard to stay alive and the doctors are very encouraged."

"That's wonderful," Della smiled.

"It is," Hamilton agreed. "Chamberlin and his family are all very relieved. They treat Sampson more like a member of their family than Sampson's own family does."

"Well, I'm glad he has them," Della said. "And you."

"Has Sampson spoken to his parents since their return?" Perry wondered.

Hamilton sighed, sobering now. "They contacted the hospital, but Sampson had the nurse say he wasn't taking any more visitors tonight. He just doesn't want to see them. And I can't blame him. After all, they only came back because they weren't done talking to Stratton."

"Are you absolutely sure of that, Hamilton?" Perry queried.

"No," Hamilton admitted. "But Sampson is. And from what I know about them, it really wouldn't surprise me."

"It _is_ possible that they came back because of him and not Stratton," Perry said.

"Maybe," Hamilton consented. "But they couldn't be bothered to come before Stratton was brought back, so their son clearly wasn't their first priority."

"It certainly would appear that way," Perry acknowledged.

Hamilton frowned. "Why are you sticking up for them, Perry?" he wondered. "You don't even know them."

"No, but I hate to see a family torn apart by a possible misunderstanding," Perry replied.

"I'm sure Sampson will see them eventually," Hamilton said. "And they'll probably try to say they were so worried about him. But I doubt he'll really believe it."

"You know, it's kind of strange that they were meeting Stratton, of all people," Paul spoke up.

"It _is_ an odd coincidence," Perry remarked. "But surely it's not more than that."

Della looked to Paul in disbelief. "Paul, you're not saying you think it _is_ more," she gasped.

"No, I guess not," Paul sighed. "But I can't help wondering about it."

"Well, I _am_ sure that whatever issues there are between Sampson and his parents, they would never deliberately have anything to do with harming him," Hamilton said firmly. "They're not _that_ far gone."

"I hope not," Paul frowned.

"What if it wasn't deliberate, though?" Perry mused. "Stratton hasn't been very cooperative. Suppose our enemies ordered him to spy on Sampson's family? They wouldn't have any idea; as far as they'd be concerned, meeting with Stratton would just be an amazing business deal."

"That wouldn't be hard to believe," Hamilton conceded.

"If that _was_ true, and they found out about it, I wonder what they'd do," Paul mused.

"I _hope_ they'd drop Stratton like a hot rock," Hamilton said. "At any rate, he's not going to be handling any business deals himself for a long time, if ever again." He sighed, suddenly looking tired. "It's going to be hard on his kid."

Steve nodded in agreement. "She's a nice girl. Hopefully she'll turn out better than her father."

"Hear, hear," Paul declared.

xxxx

Everything proceeded with relative normalcy for some time. Most relaxed into the flow, but some were still alert and worried. As far as Hamilton was concerned, it was most likely a calm between storms.

He almost wished that the militarian group had not faded into the woodwork after the mass arrest. The prisoners either seemed to know nothing genuine about the organization or else were deliberately misleading the police with the information they gave, as nothing useful had happened due to any of what they had said.

There was still no trace of Madsen's legitimate business, nor any sign of what might have risen up in its place. Both the LAPD and the Air Police were all but tearing the city apart in their desperate search.

Stratton was still proving to be most uncooperative. His lawyer seemed to be of the variety that cared little for holding to the honest methods of applying the law. Instead, he tried pulling tricks at every turn. Hamilton was growing fed up and angry. Not even talking to Stratton about the bad influence he was on his daughter made any impression whatsoever.

And Hamilton had to deal with the Virginia problem, too. No one had reached any conclusion on whether she was or was not related to the Petersons, but Martha and Douglas were becoming all the more certain that she was a fraud. Howie did not like her either, but Hamilton was unsure of how much stock to put into that. Children often had random and groundless dislikes.

The one thing Hamilton was happy about was that Sampson was making a full recovery. He was well enough now to be at home—and to very loudly complain about the tornado the assassin had made out of his house. Chamberlin and his family, as well as Hamilton, had been helping to try to set everything in order.

As Hamilton had figured, Sampson's parents did indeed try to say that they had been worried about their son. But Sampson had already been deeply hurt by their behavior both in the past and when he had lain near-death. For him, the latter had been the last straw. He did not believe them and did not want to see them.

Hamilton had spoken to Daniel Conway recently, too. Daniel had still not heard from Warner Griffith, and while he was just fine with that, he still wished he could help more in piecing together the case. Steve had finally managed to pin down Griffith long enough to talk to him, but Griffith had been most unhelpful, only saying what his wife and Virginia had already said—that Virginia had been hired to look for his son. If they had any other involvement, he was stubbornly remaining mum about it.

Daniel _had_ mentioned that he had run across Virginia several more times, seemingly by accident, but that he was starting to wonder just how accidental it was. She always seemed very friendly and above-board, and it was hard for him to believe she wasn't. Her connection with Griffith, however, made him concerned.

All in all, Hamilton wearily thought to himself as he prepared for another day of battling Stratton's lawyer, the last few weeks had rarely been peaceful. He wasn't expecting much more from the weeks that would follow.

xxxx

Amory sighed, staring blankly into the soup he was stirring in a local café.

The danger _should_ be over for him, as long as the militarian group hid in the shadows. Hamilton believed that what was left of them had decided on a complete overhaul of all of their operations, in order to render obsolete whatever might be in the information packet from Ned Thompson. But the people mentioned in said packet were still running loose, and that was more than enough to keep Amory worried.

"Oh, excuse me! You're Amory Fallon, right?"

He looked up with a start at the chirping Southern voice. Virginia had wandered over near his table with a smile. She looked friendly enough, but Ned's warning from beyond the grave had him on high alert.

"Yes," he said slowly.

"I thought I recognized you!" Virginia bubbled. "I haven't seen you around since I rescued your poor secretary from all those awful people after her."

Wanting to be polite, yet at the same time just wanting her to go away, Amory struggled to work out a response. "I haven't been out much lately," he said. "I've had a lot to do in order to get the company back in order."

"I can imagine!" Virginia nodded. "I felt so sorry for you when I heard all those stories coming out about what was going on. Is everything better now?"

"Things are running smoothly," Amory answered. "I'm sorry, Miss, but I really am busy. I have to run out of here in a minute to get back to the company."

"Oh, of course!" Virginia exclaimed. "I don't want to keep you from your lunch. I'll just head on off right now and . . ."

Somehow her foot hooked around the table leg. With a little yelp she went down . . . right onto Amory's lap. At the same moment, a camera flashed.

Half-blinded, and more than a little stunned, Amory raised a hand to shield his eyes. "What . . ."

Virginia leaped up, flushed red and stricken. "Mr. Fallon, I'm so sorry!" she cried. "I don't know what happened to me there. I just lost all balance. And now that reporter over there took a picture!"

Amory jumped up too, looking in the direction of the fleeing man. "What makes you think he was a reporter?" he frowned.

"It was one of those big cameras," Virginia said. "You know, the fancy ones reporters are always bringing out."

His nerves stretched taut, Amory hurried towards the door. "We'll see about that," he growled.

But by the time he reached the doorway, the person was already driving off. He gripped the doorframe, frustrated and bewildered and angry. Why would someone have taken a picture of _that?_

"Oh, Mr. Fallon, I'm so sorry!" Virginia piped up again, from behind him. "You know, it's awfully strange that he was right there, ready to snap that shot. Maybe he's been following you around, just waiting to get something juicy. If I just hadn't been so darn clumsy . . ."

"No, no, nevermind," Amory interrupted wearily. "Don't worry about it. It's probably just some random idiot."

"Well, if you're sure," Virginia said slowly.

"I'm sure," Amory said, turning back to face her. "Please, Miss, I really do have to get back to work."

"Of course." Virginia nodded shakily and scooted past him. "I feel just terrible, Mr. Fallon. I'm sorry again!"

Amory let out an exasperated breath as she departed. He went back to his booth, frowning, troubled.

It all could have been coincidence. Virginia had certainly acted upset. And the reporter could have appeared on the scene purely by chance.

On the other hand, his suspicious nature had been aroused. Ned had warned him about Virginia. She could have come there deliberately with the reporter and pretended to accidentally plop onto Amory's lap.

But . . . what on earth for? He wasn't a prominent enough person to be plagued with paparazzi and racy tabloid stories. And what had happened had surely been witnessed by at least some of the people in here. He couldn't be blackmailed with a photograph of the "accident."

He finished his lunch slowly, deep in bewildered thought.


	20. Jodie

**Chapter Twenty**

It was a local newspaper only a few steps above a tabloid that put out the story that afternoon. Vivian Ames was holding a copy when Amory was getting ready to leave for the day.

Ordinarily Amory wouldn't have paid much attention to the sight of Vivian with a newspaper. But her furrowed brow and deep frown definitely gave him pause today.

"That must be some story," he commented as he shifted the day's work in his arms.

"Mr. Fallon . . ." Vivian looked up, the accusations deep in her eyes.

Amory frowned. "What is it?"

"I just keep looking at this and thinking of how you ignored your wife when you thought she was cheating on you. I didn't think you were a hypocrite before, but I'm afraid I do now." Vivian turned the front of the paper to face him.

Amory's jaw dropped. There, displayed for all to see, was the shot of Virginia having plopped on his lap. Above it ran the headline, _Chance Meeting . . . Or An Affair Revealed?_

"What is this?!" he cried, snatching the paper from Vivian.

"You were caught right there in the restaurant, Mr. Fallon," Vivian said flatly.

"She just fell in my lap when she tripped!" Amory shot back. "We're not having an affair. For Heaven's sake, I barely know the woman!" He threw the paper back at her. "And this is nothing but a scandal sheet! I won't stand for this. I'll sue!"

Vivian frantically grabbed for the pages before they could go flying in all directions. "Why was a reporter right there to take a picture if it happened by accident?" she countered.

"I don't know!" Amory fumed. "But I can assure you, Miss Ames, I'm going to find out!"

But the first thing he wanted to do was to make sure Edith was aware of the truth. He hurried back into his office, dialing the home number. The phone rang—three, four times—and Amory started to drum his fingers on the desk with impatience and worry. When he finally heard a click, it seemed almost unreal.

"Hello?" Edith sounded confused, perhaps a bit hesitant. Amory prayed she hadn't seen or heard about the article.

"Edith," he greeted. "I'm sorry, but I'm going to be late tonight. You see, something happened at lunch that's now being blown out of proportion. I have to get hold of the company lawyer and take care of it."

"Amory?!" Now Edith was stunned. "What's happened?! You aren't being threatened again, are you?"

Amory sighed. "No, I'm not. But . . . well, I ran into that strange Virginia woman at lunch. She tripped and fell on my lap and someone took a picture of it right then. And now some cheap newspaper published it and is reporting that there's a possibility we're having an affair. Vivian apparently believes it." He spoke the last sentence with a quick glance at his secretary, who averted her eyes in embarrassment.

"Oh, Amory, no," Edith gasped.

"When I think about Ned's warning, I can't help wondering if it _was_ an accident," Amory remarked. "But I can't think why Virginia would do it on purpose. Well, not unless she's chasing me or something. That's all we need!"

"Maybe it's just a series of terrible coincidences," Edith said. "Amory, I'm so sorry."

"I wish it was," Amory said dryly. "Right now I just don't know. Edith, I promise I'll let you know what else happens. Hopefully this won't take long to sort out."

"Take as much time as you need, Amory," Edith encouraged him. "I'll make something that will take a while to cook."

"Thank you, Edith," Amory said in relief. "For understanding. After the way I acted in the past, I wouldn't blame you if you started wondering if the story was true, but . . ."

"I know you're a faithful husband, Amory," Edith interrupted. "You always have been. And you always will be."

Amory managed a smile. "That article really does make me look bad. I don't know how many people will believe that your faith in me isn't unfounded. I love you, Edith."

"Anyone who really knows you would have faith in you, too. I love you, Amory."

As they said their goodbyes and hung up, Amory started to dial the number of the company lawyer and then paused. This wasn't really a company problem. This was personal. Perhaps, he thought, he should turn instead to the lawyer who had helped him out of his previous personal fix.

"Miss Ames," he called through the open doorway, "would you get me Perry Mason's number?"

"Of course, Mr. Fallon," Vivian replied in some surprise.

xxxx

Perry frowned as he sat in his office, listening to Amory's tale. "So that's it then?" he said presently. "You plan to sue this newspaper?"

"Yes! Well, Mr. Mason?" Amory asked with urgency. "Surely you don't think _this_ trouble is all in my head."

Perry sighed, setting the pen aside. "Certainly not with them publishing something to deliberately distort the facts," he said. "And you're right that we have to take into consideration what Mr. Thompson said about Virginia."

"Do you think she might have tripped on purpose?" Amory wondered.

"If she's out to get you into trouble, Mr. Fallon, I wouldn't put it past her," Perry said. "I know Hamilton has been dealing with her lately and isn't impressed at all."

"Maybe I should talk with him then, too," Amory said angrily. "But will you come to the newspaper office with me, Mr. Mason? I want to let them know here and now that I'm not going to stand for this."

"Yes, Mr. Fallon, I'll come," said Perry. "But wait for me. Don't do anything rash."

"I won't," Amory said in relief. "I'll be waiting, Mr. Mason. Thank you."

Perry frowned as he hung up the phone. If this _was_ part of a deliberate plot to torture Amory, he could not figure out the reasoning behind it. They had, at long last, the information from the packet Ned Thompson had prepared for Amory, so the motivation couldn't be to force Amory to give it to their enemies. There had to be something else.

"Perry, what's wrong?" Della asked in concern.

Perry started back to the present. He had all but forgotten Della was there. He looked to her while getting up. "Oh . . . Mr. Fallon's having trouble again," he said. "It could be something unrelated to this whole mess, but when this Virginia is at the center of it, I don't know what to think."

"Oh no." Della frowned too. "That poor man. As if he hasn't been through enough lately."

"I know," Perry said grimly as he headed for the door. "Mind the office until I get back."

"And when will that be?" Della queried.

Perry paused. "I'm actually not sure," he admitted. "It could be an hour. Then again, it could be longer."

"You'll let me know, won't you?" Della said, her pencil and her hand poised over her notepad.

"Of course," Perry said with a smile before he started out.

Della sighed at the departure. It seemed that something was always going wrong for someone lately. And maybe it even _was_ still connected with that unsolved mystery.

That was not a pleasant thought where poor Amory Fallon was concerned.

Shaking her head, Della got up to return to her office.

xxxx

Sampson slowly made his way to his desk, using the wall for support. He had gone back to work at his insistence, but at Mr. Burger's insistence, for now it was just deskwork. It wasn't pleasant, yet he would certainly take this over being stranded in the hospital, bored out of his mind with nothing to do except watch soap operas or read about other people solving mysteries.

He was anxious to get back to court, to get wrapped up in the intensity and passion of questioning witnesses, picking out lies in their testimonies, and uncovering evidence to convict dangerous criminals. But he respected Mr. Burger's concerns, and he had to admit that he wasn't yet sure he felt like standing around all day. So he would take the paperwork and pray that it wouldn't be for much longer.

He sank into his chair and opened the nearest folder, frowning at the details of its case. It involved a stalking incident that had culminated in a murder. It was a gruesome, cold crime and Sampson was anxious to see the killer behind bars—or executed.

But right now his mind was wandering. Instead of thinking of this case, which Bill Vincent was prosecuting, he kept remembering Jimmy Anderson's insistence that he had seen someone watching Lieutenant Anderson. That incident had not as yet been explained or solved.

It could be sheer coincidence, nothing to worry about at all.

But someone had definitely been after Andy before he had ever been kidnapped by the people who had really wanted Amory Fallon. Otherwise, Amory would not have been mistaken for Andy and clubbed over the head because of it. And it seemed likely that this stalker on the street, if he truly was a stalker, was probably mixed up in that madness.

Aside from the militarian organization, who else would be stalking Andy?

It could be any one of dozens of people—suspects on old cases, ex-cons, or family or friends of such people. It could even be someone hired to do away with Andy.

Sampson rubbed at his eyes. He had been over the possibilities countless times in the last weeks. So had Mr. Burger. They had each spent hours with Andy, going over his caseload and trying to determine the most likely suspects. But there were never any concrete answers, no matter how many suggestions were brought up and how many people were questioned.

The phone rang, snapping his attention back to the present. He reached for the receiver, grabbing a stray, rolling pencil with his other hand. "Hello?"

"Mr. Sampson?" The girl's voice was unfamiliar. "This is Nurse Bradshaw. I'm calling to make the weekly report on Vivalene's condition."

Sampson raised an eyebrow. "I see," he said slowly. "Nurse, don't you have the wrong office? It's Mr. Burger himself who takes down those reports."

"Well, you're listed as a back-up contact if he isn't around," was the reply.

Sampson was still confused. "But Mr. Burger's secretary . . ."

"Doesn't seem to be in right now," Nurse Bradshaw interrupted. "There's nothing much to the regular part of the message; there hasn't been any change in Vivalene's condition. However, someone _did_ try to come by and see her this afternoon. Since that's unusual, I thought Mr. Burger would want someone to know as soon as possible, instead of me waiting around to try to reach his secretary."

Now fully attentive, Sampson pulled a notepad out from under the casefile. "Who was it that came by?" he demanded.

"She claimed to be a sister," Nurse Bradshaw said slowly. "It wasn't Florence, though; she gave her name as Jodie."

"Jodie," Sampson mused. "We're not aware of there being a sister under that name."

"I didn't think so," said Nurse Bradshaw. "Well, we don't have time to look it up here, but I thought you would probably want to."

"I'll get on that immediately," Sampson vowed. "But what happened? Was she turned away?"

"Yes, because she didn't have the proper identification or authorization. She claims that she's a dress designer in Manhattan and that she's been in Europe for the past couple of years. She wasn't aware of anything that Vivalene and Florence have been up to until just this week, and then she flew back as soon as she could get away."

"It _could_ be true, I suppose," Sampson said. "But it sounds so convenient."

"She said she was going to try to get the proper authorization," Nurse Bradshaw said. "So, since it's only Mr. Burger who can give it, I'm guessing she'll be turning up there any time now."

"I see. Well, I'll be watching for her. Thank you, Nurse. You did the right thing by letting me know."

Sampson hung up the phone and was accessing his computer in the next moment. But it was only after opening the browser that he realized he already had a problem.

Neither Vivalene nor Florence used their surname. How on Earth was he going to know which Jodie might be the right one? There were surely dozens of dress designers in Manhattan with that name.

Still, it was all he had to go on. He would have to do his best with that scant information. And soon, Jodie likely would appear and he could speak with her in person—if Mr. Burger wasn't out of court by that time to talk with her himself.

Several frustrating Google searches later, Sampson leaned back, staring at the screen but not really seeing it. A new idea had just occurred to him.

Vivalene had held a grudge against Andy due to the case when they had first met. Was it at all conceivable that someone who knew her—perhaps even this Jodie—could be the stalker? And if so, would she plan to finish the job Vivalene had started?

It sounded absolutely wild. But Andy deserved to know of the possibility anyway. Sampson picked up the phone, dialing police headquarters.

xxxx

Andy had just been about to leave his office when the telephone rang. Surprised, he lingered and lifted the receiver. "Hello?"

He was further surprised to hear Sampson's voice on the line. And what Sampson had to say left him stunned and reeling.

"There's _another_ sister?!" he cried in disbelief. "I know we found out about a triplet who died in San Francisco."

"This fourth one amazingly doesn't look like the others," Sampson said. "Or at least, the nurse didn't give any indication that she does. And Lieutenant . . ." He paused. "It _is_ possible that she knows of her sister's grudge against you and really came here to do something about it."

Andy sat back down at his desk. "I guess that _could_ be possible," he admitted. "I'd certainly hate to think so, but I can't take a chance on it. Thank you, Mr. Sampson. I'll try to find out more about her."

"I've been trying for the past thirty minutes," Sampson said in disgust. "And once again the Internet has proven that it isn't always helpful." He leaned back. "It's strange that she hasn't come here yet, if she truly wants that authorization to visit her sister's room."

"That is odd," Andy agreed. "But if she's not used to Los Angeles, she could have been held up in traffic or just gotten lost."

"I know. But I'm starting to think she just isn't coming." Sampson paused, listening to something out in the hall. "Mr. Edgeworth says Mr. Burger just got out of court. Excuse me, Lieutenant. I need to let him know about all of this."

"Of course," Andy acknowledged. "I'll call back if I learn anything before I hear from you or Mr. Burger."

He hung up then, amazed by the news and unable to help wondering if it really did have something to do with his situation. Vivalene's sister certainly could be an enemy of his, depending on how she felt about her sister and her goals. He would have to run a check on all Manhattan dress designers named Jodie and see if he could narrow it down to the right one.

An involuntary shiver went up his spine. The thought of someone wanting to help Vivalene get him killed was chilling. He hoped that there wasn't anyone fanatic enough and supportive enough of Vivalene to want to see that happen.

He still wasn't sure what to make of the experience he had had thanks to Vivalene's attack. On the one hand, he had been privileged and blessed to see and talk with Otto again. But on the other hand, he could not help wishing that he had not had to be killed in order to have that privilege.

It was both ironic and fitting, perhaps, for a Homicide detective to experience death and then return to tell about it. But it left him with an uneasy, uncomfortable feeling, to have been dead.

He sighed, grabbing his hat off the desk as he stood. Nevermind the past; even if it was coming back to haunt him in the present, it was the present with which he needed to be the most concerned.

He caught sight of a discarded tabloid on a table in the hallway when he stepped out of his office. The cover story, of Virginia being caught on Amory's lap, definitely gave him pause. Amory was not unfaithful to his wife. Obviously something else was going on.

Andy shook his head in disgust. Those scandal sheet writers would latch onto anything and anyone to get a story sometimes.

xxxx

Hamilton entered his office and collapsed at his desk with a sigh, placing his briefcase on the desk with the same motion. It had been a long, strenuous afternoon in court, battling with Stratton's attorney once again. And the mess was going to pick up again in earnest the next day.

He had the feeling that the judge was getting as fed up with the whole matter as Hamilton was himself. And he hoped that the judge was growing further inclined to believe that the entire trial was a joke and that justice would never be accomplished by a lawyer such as Stratton's. Not that it would help bring about a different verdict for Stratton in the end.

Hamilton kept wanting desperately for a way to trip the crooked lawyer up in his pack of lies. Of course, he was too smart to allow it to happen. So far, anyway. He would make a mistake sooner or later, but it might not be in time to keep Stratton behind bars.

And it seemed that while Hamilton had been dealing with unpleasantly frustrating defense attorneys in court, other weird things had been happening. Miles Edgeworth had said something about Virginia sitting on Amory's lap. And Sampson had gone on a spiel about a supposed sister of Vivalene's named Jodie Something and how she had been supposed to come here but hadn't and probably wouldn't.

Hamilton massaged his forehead. Why did it always seem as though everything happened at once?

"Mr. Burger?"

He looked up with a start. A blonde woman he did not recognize in the least was standing in his doorway, a portfolio under her arm.

"Your secretary was going to announce me, but I said I'd just come in. Oh, I'm Jodie Summers." She held out a hand.

He got up half-mechanically, reaching to shake her hand. "You're Vivalene's sister?" he queried.

"Yes." She shook his hand firmly. "The people at the prison ward of the hospital said I needed to see you about getting authorization to see my sister."

"Yes, that's right." Hamilton gestured to a chair. "Sit down, please." She did so, and Hamilton sat back at his desk. "How much do you know about what your sister's been up to?"

"I've heard all kinds of stories about a Box," Jodie frowned. "And black magic and the occult and other things like that." She sighed. "It doesn't surprise me, really. Vifa and Flo will try anything to get what they want."

Hamilton sighed. Well, at least he wouldn't have to try to explain that hurdle to her. He always hated having to go into topics that he still found hard to believe himself.

"Do you know about the supposed curse on her now?" he asked carefully. He hated having to explain that, too.

"That's partially why I came out," Jodie frowned. "Something about no one caring about her enough to break the curse?"

"Well, that's what Florence claims," Hamilton said. "I'm not willing to admit that's what's keeping her in the coma, but . . . I have to admit that the doctors can't find any scientific reason why she's in it."

Jodie nodded. "I think I care about her enough that I could break it," she said. "When I first went there, I had every intention of doing just that. But when I left there, I decided I should find out exactly what I might be interfering with. That's why it took me so long to get here—I was researching. And now, after I've been spending time learning exactly what she did to you and all those other poor people . . ." She shrugged helplessly. "I don't know if I could, in all good conscience, unleash a terror like that on all of you again. I could try to have the faith that she's changed, but . . . I'm afraid I'd find it highly unlikely."

Hamilton watched her carefully. "Then what exactly is it you want, Miss Summers?"

Jodie toyed with the latch on her purse. "I think I just want to see her," she said. "Not to try to get her out of the coma, at least not right now, but just to see what's become of her."

"I see," Hamilton nodded. "That would be fine. But, Miss Summers, I'll have to do some checking first and make sure you're really who you say you are. I hope you understand."

"Of course," Jodie said. "After the reign of terror Vifa presided over, you wouldn't want to let any of her paid minions in by accident."

"That's right," Hamilton said, relieved that she seemed to agree.

This could all be perfectly on the level. He was inclined to think it was.

Yet on the other hand, what if it wasn't? It certainly seemed convenient, for there to be another sister. And why had she appeared right now?

"Is there any particular company you work for, Miss Summers?" he queried.

Jodie smiled. "My own," she said. "My company is simply called _Jodie._"

"I haven't heard of it," Hamilton confessed. Not that he really kept up-to-date on dress companies.

"It's mostly on the East Coast," Jodie told him. "And in Europe. I'm looking into opening a West Coast branch, though."

Hamilton nodded. "It should take at least a couple of days for your pass to be ready," he said. "Please check back then."

Jodie stood. "I'll do that. Meanwhile, I've checked in at the Royal Hotel here in town. Thank you, Mr. Burger. Good evening. Oh, and . . ." She paused. "I'm so sorry for everything my sister did to you."

"I'm sorry, too," Hamilton said, standing as well. "Thank you, Miss Summers. I hope your stay here will be pleasant."

He waited until she had gone to request that Leon start checking into both her and her company. And then he sat back, pondering on what strangeness might be facing them now.

xxxx

Andy sighed, turning a corner in his undercover police car. He was going back to the city cemetery, to examine the area of the Graveyard Murder once again. Of course, after all this time he did not really expect to find anything. But the murderer was still at large and Andy was growing frustrated and desperate to discover something, anything, that could be a clue to his whereabouts.

The path to the tombstone in question was familiar now. Andy made the turns almost instinctively and parked near the correct section. He would not have much time to be here; it was twilight and soon would be completely dark.

If he was going to believe that any part of this cemetery was haunted, the stone where the body had been draped was certainly a good bet. Not only was there the spirit of the recently deceased, but the spirit of the person whose stone had been used. Andy doubted either one of them felt very restful about the situation.

As he started walking over the grass, a prick at the back of his neck made him sharply snap to alertness. Something wasn't right. Was someone here? Had someone _been_ here? He started to reach for his gun.

Then the stone came into view and Andy saw what was wrong. He stopped, stock still at the sight.

A life-size cloth dummy had been draped over the stone, just as the body had been. A dagger plunged into its back held a sheet of paper in place, waving and crackling in the evening breeze.

Andy hurried over, leaning in to read the paper without disturbing anything.

_The next body they're going to find here_

_will be yours, Lieutenant Anderson._

_R.I.P. Andy._


End file.
